Lara had been drinking as well as pill popping. She had still managed to go out on the dance floor and perform perfectly—until she had dropped. Nell had taken classes at the studio but had quit six months before her death. There had to be a connection, but what? Nell’s husband was in jail. And even if someone had killed Lara because she was competition, why would they have killed Nell? Say Ben Trudeau was the one who’d done Lara in—what on earth would be his connection with Nell? Teachers didn’t just off students and make it appear that their husbands had done the deed.
He groaned, having spent the afternoon on a paper chase that went in circles. He glanced at the clock, wishing Gordon Henson and Ben Trudeau hadn’t chosen to make their after-service get-together a private one. Someone had a key to this. And it was someone associated with the studio, he was certain.
Water lapped against the boat. He glanced at his watch and noted that the day had gone to dark.
Laughter filtered to him from the restaurant and bar.
Hell, he needed a beer. And maybe his brother or some of the other guys were at Nick’s.
His brother, who had gotten him into this.
Impatiently he rose.
He was getting obsessive again.
Doug had better be there, he thought. His brother owed him. Leaving things as they lay, he left the boat.
Shannon stared out the window as time ticked by. Then, at last, she gritted her teeth and arched her back, unknotting her shoulders.
“This is so ridiculous,” she said aloud to herself. “Why would anyone run around my yard night after night, staring in?”
If someone really wanted to break in, they would have done so already.
And yet…
She could have sworn that, last night, she had left the porch light on. How had it gotten off?
“Right. Someone broke into my house, touched nothing at all, but turned the porch light off. Sure,” she muttered, her words seeming ridiculously loud in the quiet of the house.
She suddenly, and desperately, wanted to get out. She didn’t want to be alone, which was absurd. She loved her house, loved her quiet time. Loved nights alone when she worked on steps on her own little dance floor. And, sad as it might seem, she did like those moments when she threw a bag of microwave popcorn in, then caught up on a movie on DVD, since it seemed she never quite made it to a theater.
But not tonight.
On a sudden whim, she raced into the bedroom and quickly changed into more casual attire. She didn’t know where she was going, or at least didn’t realize where until she got out to her car.
She could have gone to the club. Gabriel would always find her a place, and she might find her friends there. But she wasn’t going to the club. A strange idea had actually been brewing in her mind throughout the past several minutes.
There had been so many questions that day. And suppositions. So…
Exactly what was the real story with Quinn O’Casey?
He wasn’t a drug lord. She couldn’t believe that. Way too far-fetched.
But…
Neither was he what he claimed to be. She was sure of that.
She started to drive, not even sure where Nick’s was.
“Wouldn’t happen. Would never happen. You can just tell,” Doug was saying.
He was sitting across from Bobby. The two of them were alone at the table, remnants of the fish and chips they had eaten pushed to one corner. Doug had an iced tea; Bobby had a beer.
“I don’t see why not,” Bobby said. “The guy needs a partner.” Bobby looked up and saw Quinn coming toward them. “Hey. Are you joining us?”
“Yep.” Quinn sat down. A girl named Mollie was working the patio that night. She waved to him. “Miller, please,” he called to her. “You’re buying,” he told Doug.
Doug grimaced. “Sure.”
Quinn looked at Bobby. “What wouldn’t happen?”
“Shannon. She’d never dance with Ben Trudeau.”
“She dances with him at the studio, doesn’t she?” Quinn asked.
“Bobby is talking professionally,” Doug said.
“She doesn’t compete at all, does she?” Quinn asked. Mollie brought his beer, and he gave her a thanks, then stared at the other two.
“No. She did once, though. And according to a few of the conversations I overheard at the wake, she was great. Maybe better than Lara,” Bobby told him.
“I watched the tape,” Quinn said. “I saw Sam and Jane out there, but no one else from the studio.”
“Ben hasn’t competed since his last partner got married and decided to have a baby,” Doug said. “He’s been looking for a new partner for about two years.”
“But he’s been back at the studio working for a while, too, right?” Quinn asked.
“About a year, I believe,” Bobby said.
“So why would Shannon suddenly dance with him now? He wasn’t with Lara anymore, anyway,” Quinn said.
Bobby looked at Doug. “You never filled him in on Shannon’s past, huh?”
“No, he didn’t,” Quinn said, irritated as he stared at his brother. Doug had gotten him involved. He shouldn’t have left out any information that might have been pertinent.
“When she was younger, Shannon was nuts about Ben,” Bobby said. “He’s the one who found her. She was working some small professional gigs and teaching in a little mom-and-pop place up in the Orlando area. He saw her potential, and whether they started an affair and he brought her down, or he brought her down and then they started an affair, I’m not sure. What we know is really gossip, of course, because I only went for lessons about six months ago—getting ready for Randy’s wedding and of course my own—and then I dragged your brother in right after that. But anyway, some of the people there have been taking lessons for years, and they talk. Anyway, one night when I was watching Ben and Shannon do a waltz together, I said something about how incredible they looked together. It was old Mr. Clinton, I think, who said, ‘Well hell, they should look great together. They competed together for two years.’ Then Shannon had broken her ankle. Lara had been hanging around, and the next thing you knew…well, Shannon needed a lot of therapy, and Ben wasn’t about to wait around for her to get better. He started working with Lara. Then…”
“Then they wound up married,” Doug said flatly.
Quinn stared at Doug. “Suppose,” he said evenly, “something involving foul play did happen to Lara Trudeau. Shannon Mackay might be a prime suspect. Jealousy, passion, anger—the motives are all there.”
Doug shook his head. “All you have to do is meet Shannon, speak to her once, and you know she’s not a killer.”
“The right motives are there, Doug,” Quinn said irritably. He didn’t think Shannon Mackay could be a killer, either. If she were, she also had to be the best actress in the universe. But then again, murder often proved that all things were possible.
“Hell, everybody had a motive. We all know that,” Doug said, sounding a little defensive. “Most women hated Lara—she was gorgeous.”
“Wait a minute,” Bobby protested. “All women do not hate all other women who are gorgeous.”
“You sure?” Doug asked. A slow smile was curving his lips.
“Yes, I’m sure,” Bobby said.
“Did Giselle teach you to say that?”
“Bite me,” Bobby told him.
“Hey,” Quinn protested.
“Okay, seriously?” Bobby said. “She was competition, sure. But they’re all competition for each other. Most people don’t kill people just because they’re in competition with them.”
“Ah, but let’s see, Jane has gone up against her dozens of times—and lost,” Doug said. “Half of the professional dancers out there have gone up against Lara—and lost. That creates hundreds of suspects.”
Quinn shook his head. “Whoever did it had to be there that night.”
“True,” Doug agreed. “And they would have had to figure out how to force all that stuff into her without her pro
testing, saying anything to anyone…ah, hell. Maybe she did just take too much stuff. I keep thinking that I knew her. Maybe I didn’t.”
“What about Gordon Henson?” Quinn asked, taking a swig of his beer.
“Lara was kind of a cash cow for Gordon. A prize—even if she could be just as bitchy to him as she was to everyone else,” Bobby said.
“Ben could easily have had a motive,” Quinn said.
“You bet,” Doug agreed, and it sounded as if he was growing angry. “In fact, they argued a lot.”
“Really?” Bobby said. “I’ve never seen any of them argue.”
“They’re not allowed to argue in the studio. But I went back to get coffee one day, and they were both there. Though they shut up when they saw me, I heard him speaking really sharply to her, and she said something like, ‘In your dreams, asshole,’ to him.”
Quinn’s chair was facing the pathway that led around to the patio from the parking lot. Glancing up, he was amazed to see Shannon Mackay—in form-hugging jeans, a tube top and an overshirt—walking tentatively along the trail to the back tables. “I don’t believe it,” he breathed.
“Why don’t you believe it? I’m telling you the truth,” Doug said irritably.
He glared at his brother. “No. I don’t believe that Shannon Mackay is here. Now.”
Both Bobby and Doug swung around. At the same time, she saw them. She looked startled at first, then waved. Bobby waved back, beckoning her over.
She approached the table, smiling. She kissed Doug and Bobby on the cheek, then got to Quinn. Her fingers felt cold and tense on his shoulders. Her lips brushed his face with less than affection. Her smile, he thought, was insincere. Yet her scent, and the way she felt, brushing against him…
“This is a surprise,” he said. “A real surprise. I thought your group was all tied up with itself this evening.”
She looked intently at him, then shrugged. “I needed to get away. I know too many people on the beach, though, and I’d heard everybody talk about this place, so…”
“So here you are. Running into us,” Quinn said flatly.
“Uh, yeah,” she murmured.
“Quinn, man, that was rude,” Doug said, glaring at him. “Sit down, join us. I mean, I know you’re not supposed to hang around with students, but hell you’re the boss. And this is definitely a strange occasion, huh?”
“Yeah, I guess it’s a strange occasion,” she agreed, taking the fourth chair at the table.
“Are you hungry?” Bobby asked her. “The fish is as fresh as it gets. And the burgers are good, too. Or are you a vegetarian? Jane is, right?”
“Jane is a vegetarian. I’m a carnivore. I think a burger sounds great,” she said.
“Hey, Mollie!” Bobby started to turn around, but Mollie was already there.
“Hi,” she said cheerfully. “What can I get you?”
“Iced tea, please,” Shannon said, smiling. “And a hamburger.”
“Cheese?”
“Plain, thanks.”
“Fries okay? Or would you prefer slaw.”
“The fries are wonderful here, too,” Doug said.
“Fries.”
“You sure you want tea?” Bobby asked her. “You look as if you could use a drink.”
She smiled. “I think I could use a lot of drinks. But I drove.”
Quinn leaned forward. “Have a drink. You can leave your car here. I can drive you home and get you tomorrow so you can pick it back up.”
She was going to say no, he was certain. That would constitute much more than an accidental meeting between a teacher and some students at a restaurant.
“We won’t have to talk while I drive,” he teased. “I swear, I won’t fraternize. Well, unless you fraternize first.”
“I can’t, I mean I really shouldn’t.”
“Oh, have the damn beer,” Mollie piped in, then grinned. “Sorry, I guess I’ve worked here too long. I just thought I should solve this thing. Honey, I don’t know the situation, but you do look like you need a drink. This one here…” She paused, pointing at Bobby. “He’s a newlywed, not dangerous in the least. I’d swear it on a stack of Bibles. And these two…well, if they say they’ll get you home safe and sound, they’ll do it.”
Shannon had looked surprised at first, almost offended. But by the time Mollie finished speaking, she was laughing. “Great. Bring me a beer. Something on draft, and very big.”
“You got it,” Mollie told her, and moved on.
“I get to pick up the tab, though,” Shannon said firmly. “I owe you guys, after this morning.”
“After this morning?” Doug said.
“The reporter,” Quinn reminded him. “That guy is a real pain in the ass.”
“His paper has been sued a dozen times,” Shannon assured him. She sat back in her chair, looking around. “Great place,” she murmured. “It’s so rustic—and nice.”
“Dancers are used to white tablecloths and diners in gloves and beaded gowns, huh?” Quinn asked.
“I seldom leave home without my beads, you bet,” she said seriously. “I wasn’t taking a crack at your special place. I like rustic. I live on the beach. My favorite vacation spot is the islands. This patio is outside, and there are boats and oil and fish all over the place down on the pier, and it’s still unbelievably clean. I’m not sure I could manage that.”
“Nick is a great guy,” Doug said. “He runs a tight ship.”
“And it’s a big cop hangout, huh?” she said.
She was definitely after something, Quinn decided.
“His niece is a cop. Married to another cop,” Bobby said. He stood abruptly, looking uncomfortable. “Thanks very much for dinner, Shannon. I’ll let you buy, since we did invest pretty heavily to look good for the wedding.”
She grinned. “And you two did look good.”
“Yeah, we did. Thanks again for dinner. Since I’m still pretty much a newlywed, I’ve probably hung out long enough. Night, all.”
He received a chorus of good-nights in turn, not just from their table, but from others. As he left, Mollie returned with Shannon’s meal.
Shannon thanked her and bit in, chewed, then said, “Wow, this is a great burger.”
“Naturally,” Doug told her. “We wouldn’t lie.”
“No?” she said, smiling. Doug looked at her gravely and shook his head.
“You nervous to be at your house?” Quinn asked her abruptly.
“Nervous? No,” she said quickly.
“Why would she be nervous at her own house?” Doug asked.
“No reason,” she assured him.
“Everybody’s nervous now and then,” Quinn said. “Houses creak. Especially old houses with old floorboards.”
“What’s it like living on a boat?” Shannon asked. “You have one up here, right? Isn’t that what you said?”
He pointed down to the pier. “She’s right there.”
“You should see her,” Doug said. “Sweetest little thing in the bay.”
Quinn glared across the table at his brother.
“I’d love to see your boat,” Shannon said.
“Would you?” Quinn murmured. She was nervous, he thought. She wanted company and had actually chosen him. He rose abruptly. “Let me take a look at her first, then—pick up a little.”
“Don’t be silly. I don’t want you to go to any bother,” she told him.
“I’ll just take a peek and see if the place is presentable. Doug, don’t even think about leaving Miss Mackay until I get back.”
“Hey, no problem.”
Quinn left them at the table, ready to strangle his own brother. Doug had forced him into the game and hadn’t given him the full deck.
He hurried down the pier to his boat and jumped aboard, quickly heading into the cabin. The tape of Lara Trudeau’s last performance was sitting on the counter between the galley and dining area. His files, with the copies of the autopsy reports on Nell Durken and Lara Trudeau and various other papers
, were next it. He quickly stashed them in one of the cabinets by the small desk. Taking a quick look around, he ascertained that he’d left out nothing else incriminating.
Incriminating? Shit! If she’d seen that stuff, she would have been furious.
He went topside again, leaped to the pier and hurried back to Nick’s patio. Shannon hadn’t lied when she’d said she wasn’t a vegetarian—she’d consumed everything on the plate. Apparently she didn’t starve herself to stay so perfectly in shape. But then again, in her line of work, she must burn energy by the barrel.
“Am I allowed to see the sacred ground now?” she teased.
“It’s still not great, but…hey.” He arched a brow. “You’re sure you won’t be fraternizing if you come to my boat?”
She’d finished her beer, as well. She looked more relaxed than he’d ever seen her. “I’m coming to see if you’re capable of arranging the charter I need for my get-together before the Gator Gala.”
Doug rose. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ve seen the boat. And I’m on at eight tomorrow morning, which means I try to get into the station by seven. Good night, and, Shannon, thanks for dinner.”
“My pleasure, Doug,” she said, rising as well.
Quinn realized she had apparently paid the bill in his absence.
“You really didn’t have to pick up all our dinners,” he told her.
She flashed a smile. “You were really cheap dates, and I was glad of the company. Besides, I didn’t pay for your dinner. Just a beer. You didn’t eat.”
He smiled. “I just came out and found those two talking. I ate in.”
“You cook?”
“Not a lot, but enough to survive. I’m not bad. And you?”
“I’m pure gourmet.”
“Really?”
“No, I’m horrible. But I can manage the basics, like boiling pasta and heating sauce. And hey, can I break a head of lettuce!”
She spoke lightly as they walked along the pier. He glanced at her. It was almost as if a wall had come down.
Dead on the Dance Floor Page 14