Dead on the Dance Floor

by Heather Graham

  She rose, Sam taking her elbow to rise with her.

  There was a long line behind them. The funeral home was filled to capacity and beyond. People who had known her, professionals, amateurs and the just plain curious, had come to pay their respects.

  She walked over to where Gordon was standing, talking quietly with Gunter Heinrich, one of the champions from Germany. Gunter greeted her with a sad smile and a kiss on the cheek.

  “Gunter, you made it here. I’m amazed to see you. This was all arranged so quickly.”

  Very tall, blond, an elegant man with strong facial features, Gunter shrugged. “I was in the States—Helga and I stayed after the competition on the beach. We’re going on—we’d planned on doing the competition in Asheville next week. I was just speaking with Gordon about using the dance studio for some practice sessions next week,” Gunter continued. “Are you available for some coaching?”

  They were at a wake, she thought, and yet Gunter was scheduling. Maybe she hadn’t been to enough wakes. She could hear soft conversation all around her. Maybe that was part of it. Life went on.

  “I think so,” she murmured.

  Mr. Clinton was at the coffin then. Looking grave, he went to his knees, said a little prayer and crossed himself. Jane came up to him as he rose again, slipping an arm around his shoulders. The Longs were there, quietly standing at the back of the room, engaged in conversation with the young couple who had come to learn to dance for their wedding. Rhianna Markham, who had taught the couple, stood with them.

  Ben was on the other side of the coffin, standing alone, looking somber, and almost as if he were in another world.

  Mary and Judd Bentley, owners of a franchise studio down in South Dade, came up to the coffin and bent down together. They were good people, and good friends. Mary was actually crying—one of the few in attendance doing so.

  “You’re next.”

  “What?”

  Shannon’s attention was drawn sharply back to Gunter.

  His brow arched. She hadn’t realized how sharply she had spoken, or how loudly. She flushed. “Sorry. I’m afraid I was distracted.”

  “I was telling Gordon, he has to find the right words to get you out there. You’re the best coach we’ve ever had—and one of the best dancers I’ve ever seen. If you went back out there, you could be next.”

  “Oh, I…thanks,” she murmured. “That’s very sweet. Excuse me, will you?”

  She suddenly knew she had to get out of the building, if only for a moment. She turned and started down the center aisle between the rows of chairs. The smell of the multitude of flowers lining the room, set against every available wall, in stands and over the casket itself, was overwhelming. She closed her eyes and nearly crashed into Ella Rodriguez and Justin Garcia as they took their turn heading to kneel down before Lara.

  In the antechamber, she moved through a milling crowd. More dancers. She saw one of last year’s local salsa champions, a beautiful, petite girl with a body to kill for. She was in black—a tight black dress that hugged her every curve. She was in deep conversation with one of the officers of the national dance association.

  Katarina was in the antechamber, looking sedate in a navy suit and apparently saddened by the occasion. But before Shannon could even approach her, another woman stepped in front of her, loudly asking if she could come in for a fitting the following day. When Katarina informed her that she would be attending Lara’s funeral, the woman insisted on seeing her Monday.

  Shannon lifted a hand to Katarina, then rushed out the front door.

  The funeral home Gordon had chosen was almost dead in the center of Miami proper. He’d paid a great deal to buy a plot for Lara in one of the area’s oldest cemeteries, Woodlawn, a beautiful place made more beautiful by the heavy respect that the Latin community paid to their dead.

  The street in front of her was busy with traffic racing by. A horn blared. A driver shouted out his window at someone who didn’t move fast enough in front of him. There was a convenience store across the street, and a group of teens sat in front of it on the hood of a restored Chevy, chatting, laughing.

  The air wasn’t exactly fresh and inviting—a burst of exhaust fumes came her way. But she felt better away from the overwhelming scent of the flowers. And away from the strange state of hypocrisy that existed inside.

  People exited as she stood there, lifting their hands in solemn salute to her as they headed for the parking lot. Some she knew well, some she had at least seen before, and in some cases, she didn’t have any idea who they were. She waved back anyway.

  Then, weaving through a group that was leaving, she saw two men on their way in. The brothers O’Casey.

  Doug came straight to her, giving her a hug, kissing her cheek. He looked truly distraught. His usually neatly brushed wheat hair was rumpled in front, as if he’d been running his fingers through it. His features were strained.

  “This is it, huh?” he said, his voice husky. “This makes it real.”

  She nodded, touching his cheek, and felt suddenly glad, because here was someone who had really cared about Lara Trudeau, if only as her student and a friend. Except, according to Jane, he might have cared about her as much more.

  “It is real, Doug, I’m afraid. Very real.”

  “How does she…look?” he asked.

  “This sounds trite, of course, but it’s true. She’s beautiful. As if she’s sleeping,” Shannon told him.

  He lowered his head. “I’m going in.”

  He turned and walked toward the door. Quinn remained. Tall, dark, striking in his suit. Watching her. In the shadows of the street, his eyes appeared almost black. Like dual abysses of some deep, dark knowledge that somehow accused her, or saw more than they should.

  She crossed her arms over her chest, returning his stare. “It’s interesting to see you. You didn’t know Lara, did you? Had you ever seen her dance?”

  “I came with my brother,” he said.

  “Ah, I see.”

  “Do you?” He looked toward the door. “It’s interesting to see lots of the people who come to a wake, isn’t it? I mean, seriously, how many people are here because they care—and how many are here just to see her and be seen themselves?”

  “People often come to see someone well-known,” Shannon said. “Gordon didn’t specify anywhere that this was to be private. He wanted anyone who wished to see Lara and pay their respects to her talent to feel free to come.”

  “Noble,” Quinn murmured. She couldn’t tell if it was in mockery or not.

  “Are you going back in?” he asked.

  She stared at him and shook her head. “No, I don’t think so. I came early with Gordon and Ben to see that everything was set up properly.”

  “Of course. And then there’s the strain of the funeral tomorrow.” Again she couldn’t pinpoint the tenor of his voice. Was he mocking? Did he somehow see that so much of this was a sham, a performance for Lara or, perhaps, for all of them?

  “Do you need a ride home?”

  She hesitated. Actually, she did. She had come with Ben, and he and Gordon would be staying to the bitter end.

  “Don’t worry—I won’t fraternize,” he told her, definite amusement in his eyes then. “Just give me a minute to go in and pay my own respects.”

  “It’s not necessary.”

  “I don’t mind.”

  She lifted her head slightly. “Doug is already in there. And you didn’t know Lara. So…just what is your intention in going in?”

  His lips curled slightly. “Well, to see, of course. And maybe to be seen, as well. Wait for me. I’ll be right with you.”

  He turned and headed for the entrance. She watched him go, wishing that, in the midst of all that was going on—and despite the definite mistrust she felt—she weren’t admiring the way his shoulders carried the sleek lines of his suit, or noting again the subdued but rich, evocative scent of aftershave that seemed to linger when he had gone.

  Lara was dead and would s
oon be buried.

  She had to admit, she was afraid herself. Afraid of something vague that she knew but couldn’t touch.

  And Quinn O’Casey?

  The man was after something. She just wasn’t sure what.

  CHAPTER 7

  Doug was by the coffin and Quinn decided, for the moment, to let him be. He strode up the aisle and waited off to the side.

  People were filling the chairs and lining the walls. Bits and pieces of conversation came to him. One group talked about the weather, and someone chimed in that it was a stroke of genius for Moonlight Sonata to plan the Gator Gala for February, the dead of winter, when everyone would want to be in Florida.

  Two others were talking technique, comparing notes on footwork. He was pretty sure that most of the people here were in the world of dance.

  Doug remained on his knees before the coffin.

  Gordon Henson saw Quinn and lifted a hand in acknowledgment. Jane walked over to Doug, kneeling down beside him.

  Ben Trudeau was standing at the coffin, arms crossed over his chest as if he were a sentinel, guarding the remains.

  Quinn moved closer, waiting his turn, listening. At last Doug rose, arm in arm with Jane, and the two moved away. Quinn walked up to the coffin. The woman inside had been beautiful, of course. Now her hair was styled, makeup had been applied. She had been dressed for burial in a sky-blue dance gown with elaborate beadwork on the bodice. Her hands were folded. She held a flower. She really did look as if she were a modern day Sleeping Beauty, awaiting the kiss that would awaken her. Except that it wouldn’t come. The telltale autopsy scar was, of course, not visible, and so Lara Trudeau lay like a whirl of grace and motion that had been paused in an eternity of time.

  He’d seen the tape of that day. Seen her fly and touch the clouds. Seen her die.

  He’d gone to Sunday school every week when he’d been growing up. He still attended church with Doug and his mom now and then. He automatically signed a cross over his chest, bowed his head…

  And listened.

  Someone was standing with Ben Trudeau by the huge flower urn at the head of the coffin. He recognized the voices—it was that of Gabriel Lopez, the sleek owner of Suede.

  “Are you all right, Ben?” Lopez sounded like a true friend, concerned.

  “Of course I’m all right. We’d been divorced a long time.”

  “Still, I didn’t know her anywhere near as well, but…she made an impression,” Gabriel said.

  There was a hesitation. “I guess I never did stop loving her, in a way. Like you love a selfish child. I hated her, too, though, sometimes.”

  “You might want to be careful what you say,” Lopez warned Ben, his voice quiet.

  “Why?” Ben demanded.

  “Well, the circumstances were pretty strange.”

  “Oh, jeez, that again. The cops questioned everyone. They did an autopsy. They studied the tape. The circumstances were strange because Lara was such an idiot for killing herself that way. Accidentally. Idiotically.” He sounded angry. “I wish everyone would just stop with this. God knows—we could all point fingers at one another.”

  “I don’t know…is it really over? I heard that Shannon Mackay isn’t convinced.”

  “Shannon doesn’t want to face reality. And hey, if someone wanted to start pointing fingers, they could point right at her,” Ben said irritably.

  “Is everything all right?”

  A third voice had joined in. A woman’s. Memory clicked. It was Mina Long. Dr. Long, the pediatrician.

  “Well,” Lopez murmured, a trace of humor in his voice, “this is a wake.”

  “Of course, of course. You know, Ben, I meant…You do believe Richard did everything he could, don’t you? He may be a plastic surgeon, but trust me, he knows CPR and emergency measures.”

  “Mina, please, of course we know Richard did everything he could,” Ben said. “It’s just hard to accept that she’s really gone. Excuse me, will you? An old partner of mine just walked in. I think I’ll say hi.”

  Ben moved away. “He looks upset,” Mina said to Gabriel, concerned.

  “Sure he’s upset. But I think he sees a chance to find himself a new partner, rather than an old one. Ben hasn’t danced professionally in a while now, and he’s anxious to get back to it.” There was a long sigh. “I’ve got to get going. I didn’t know Lara that well, but the club and the studio have a great relationship, so I wanted to be here. Still, I couldn’t close the club, and it’s a Friday night. Give Richard my best. How is he holding up, by the way? I know he considered Lara a big part of his success as a dancer.”

  “Well, of course, his sessions with Lara were important, but I believe Richard knows that Shannon is the one who really taught him. He did admire Lara, though. And being the first one to reach her when it happened…He’s all right, though. Good night, Gabriel. We’ll be seeing you.”

  “I count on it,” Gabriel assured her, and left.

  A woman came up to Mina. “Hello, dear, how are you?”

  “Gracie, nice to see you. Sorry for the circumstances, though. And congratulations. I understand that Lara was posthumously awarded the trophy for the night she died, but that you came in second.”

  “It was a rather hollow victory,” the newcomer said. “I wonder why on earth Gordon and Ben chose that dress. She has so many others that would have been…more appropriate. I mean, it was perfect on the dance floor, but in a coffin…it’s rather garish, don’t you think?”

  “I would have chosen that pink gown she wore for her last Viennese waltz,” Mina said. “And the delicate little diamonds she wore with it.” Mina sighed. “I helped her into it the last time she wore it.”

  “Really?” the woman named Gracie said, then changed the subject. “We’ll be seeing you at the Gator Gala?”

  “Of course.”

  “I’ve got to find Darrin. You and Richard take care, now.”

  Mina Long was left standing alone but not for long. She saw Doug standing with Bobby and Giselle, not far away. “Doug, Bobby, Giselle, sweetie. How are you doing?” she called as she walked off.

  Quinn didn’t hear their replies, distracted when someone knelt next to him. He knew before turning that it was Shannon. He recognized the scent of her cologne.

  “Seriously religious, are you?” she asked softly.

  “I have been known to go to mass,” he replied.

  She was staring at the coffin, her expression tense.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “Well, she is dead,” Shannon pointed out irritably.

  “Yes, but you look a lot more than just sad.”

  She shook her head. “She shouldn’t be dead, that’s all. She was only in her thirties. She was stunning. She didn’t smoke. She drank power shakes all the time…. She just should not be dead, that’s all,” Shannon said. “Has everyone seen you yet? Have you seen everyone? I need to get home, but I can call a cab.”

  “No, I’d be delighted to drive you home. As long as you won’t get fired for it or anything.”

  She cast him a glare. “You know, we’re not that ridiculous. It’s not a good thing for teachers and students to get too close. It can cause professional difficulties.”

  “Then again, you have to try to get your students to feel a sense of closeness, right? Dancing is a social activity. The longer you do it, the closer you get.”

  She rose, saying, “We’re hogging the prayer bench.”

  Then she was gone.

  Quinn rose more slowly and found Bobby standing to his side. He offered Quinn an awkward smile. “She was a beautiful woman, huh?”

  “You worked with her?”

  “Only a few times. Giselle and I wanted a picture-perfect wedding. And we had fun. Doug’s the one who got so involved in the dancing.” Bobby shrugged. Quinn realized that Bobby didn’t know that Doug had not just gotten into dancing, but that he had gotten into Lara Trudeau, as well. Bobby frowned, though, and lowered his voice. “He didn’t drag you
down here just to get you into dancing, though, did he?”

  Quinn shook his head. “But they don’t know that at the studio.”

  “Hey, I wouldn’t say anything.” He shrugged again. “But I don’t know what you’re going to find. I was there when it happened. She just dropped.”

  “I know. I saw the tape today.”

  “Well, if I can help, I’m there.”

  “I know. Thanks.”

  By the time Quinn walked away down the aisle, Shannon Mackay was almost out the front door. He stepped up behind her as she walked out to the street, ready to hail a taxi.

  “Sorry. I’m here.”

  “Look, it’s okay. The beach isn’t on the way to the Keys.”

  “I brought a boat up to Coconut Grove. You’re only a five-minute detour.”

  “You can get to the Grove by driving straight south.”

  “But I like to drive on the causeway out to the beach. Especially at night. All the lights are on. The shadows hide all the city’s dirty little secrets. Night on the water is the most beautiful time. Come on. Let me drive you home. It’s really no big deal.”

  “All right, thank you.”

  She walked along beside him, then stopped suddenly. “How did you know I live on the beach?”

  “I didn’t. I assumed. I guess because of the studio.”

  “You assumed?”

  “My God, you’re suspicious. I figured if you lived somewhere else, you’d tell me so. Just so I could drive you to the right place.”

  He must have sounded exasperated, because she actually smiled. “I live on the beach. Just a few blocks from the studio.”

  The night was balmy. As they walked along, however, she shivered slightly.

  “Cold? Would you like my jacket?”

  “No, thank you. I’m fine.”

  She spun around suddenly. A couple who had attended the wake was walking behind them. Quinn glanced at them, then at Shannon, arching his brow. “You seem a little jumpy.”