Quickstep to Murder

by Ella Barrick

  “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.

  Chapter 6

  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 telephon
ing 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-?”

  He smiled but shook his head. “I can practice with some of them, but not compete. I’m fully committed with my own ladies.”

  Competitions were divided into heats by age, dance, and ability level (bronze, silver, or gold). Each heat lasted one to two minutes and each of a pro’s students might be entered into thirty-five, fifty, or even more heats during a weekend. It was a scheduling nightmare and I wasn’t surprised that Maurice couldn’t juggle another student at the D.C. event.

  “I heard Vitaly Voloshin has moved to Baltimore,” he said.

  “What! I thought he was in St. Petersburg.”

  “He was, but his new partner-life partner, not dance partner-is an architect in Baltimore and Vitaly moved here after their commitment ceremony. Anya refused to come to the States to train with him,” Maurice added significantly.

  Anya Karinska was Vitaly’s professional partner. He was a world-class dancer and if he was between partners… I didn’t have a moment to lose. I was racking my brain to find a way to get Vitaly’s phone number when Maurice passed a piece of paper across the table. “I thought you might be interested, so I got his number from a friend of a friend.” He winked.

  “What would I do without you?” I beamed at him and picked up the phone.

  “Fret yourself into a decline, run the business into the ground, and end up working as an Avon lady,” he said, rising to his feet and leaning across the desk to pat my cheek before he left.

  Vitaly Voloshin arrived from Baltimore barely two hours later, eager to discuss taking on Rafe’s students and the possibility of partnering with me. Off the dance floor, he looked like someone you’d find behind the counter of a convenience store: thin face with a beaky nose, stick-straight blond hair with all the luster of dried hay, and a gangly body that seemed to be mostly arms and legs. Last time I’d seen him, he’d had crooked, tannish teeth. Now he flashed a smile that told me some dentist was vacationing on the Riviera with his profits from bleaching, capping, straightening, and/or crowning Vitaly’s teeth. They gleamed whitely and his smile broadened when he saw me staring at them. He tapped a front tooth with his fingernail. “My partner is taking me to the dentist as a wedding present. Very sexy, da?”

  “Da,” I agreed.

  We warmed up in silence, stretching at the barre and marching in place as the sun warmed the quiet studio. I thought how strange it was to be here preparing to dance with someone other than Rafe. It sort of felt like I was cheating on him.

  “We shall dancing now,” Vitaly announced. As I started the music and moved toward him, he was transformed. It was like he flipped a switch. Power and grace and charisma flowed from him and even if he’d never be conventionally handsome, he was striking in a way I knew the judges would notice. He led exceptionally well and we worked our way through all the standard dances-waltz, tango, Viennese waltz, foxtrot, and quickstep-before stopping.

  “Now you will winning at Blackpool, Stacy Graysin,” he said confidently, “now that you are partnered by Vitaly. The Argentinean-he was not good enough for you. He was a-” The last word was unintelligible Russian, but I got the gist. His tone was cold and his gray eyes stony and I wondered exactly what had happened between him and Rafe.

  “Let’s not count our chickens,” I cautioned, although the session had gone better than I dared hope. “We need lots of practice time if we’re going to compete together.”

  His blond hair flopped into his eyes and he flung it back. “I am not concerning with the poultry. Only with the winning together.”

  We set up a tentative practice schedule and discussed Rafe’s students. Vitaly agreed to take most of them on. “Except not the fat ones,” he said emphatically. “Nyet. Vitaly is not dancing with the-” He tossed in another Russian word.

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “You is saying ‘hippies.’”

  “Hippos,” I corrected him.

  “Da.”

  I deplored his attitude, but agreed to his demands. Only one of Rafe’s serious students was a larger woman and I knew Maurice would suit her well. Vitaly also agreed to compete at the Capitol Festival with the three students who had entered the pro-am events with Rafe.

  “We will also competing,” he said definitively, pointing at me and then himself.

  I knew we needed to compete as partners, make an impression on the judges, before Blackpool, but I didn’t know h
ow we’d get costumes done, choreograph our dances, and practice sufficiently in one week.

  “Vitaly is taking care of,” he said when I mentioned these obstacles. He made a brushing motion, as if sweeping aside the pesky details.

  Unless Vitaly had a magic wand, I didn’t know how he was “taking care of,” but I went with it. I reached out to shake hands good-bye, but he caught my hand in his and brought it to his lips in a courtly gesture. “Vitaly is-”

  “Not wasting much time replacing your dead fiancé, are you, Miss Graysin?” an abrasive voice said from the doorway.

  I jerked my hand away and spun to see Detective Lissy looking deceptively nondescript but precise with each mousy hair Brylcreemed into place and his tie meticulously knotted. Two uniformed police officers hovered behind him.

  “Vitaly is having work visa,” the suddenly agitated dancer said, apparently mistaking Lissy and his posse for immigration officers. He darted toward his dance bag and fished through its pockets.

  Cold stole through my body, making my fingers and toes tingle. Detective Lissy’s gaze stayed glued to my face, even when Vitaly danced forward, waving a form he’d extracted from his wallet.

  “Miss Graysin, you need to come with us to discuss the murder of Rafael Acosta,” Lissy said. The uniformed cops moved toward me, one of them dangling handcuffs from his hand.

  This couldn’t be happening. I started shivering and Vitaly looked at me with an expression of mingled surprise and approval. “But-”

  “You have the right to remain silent…”

  Chapter 7

  Humiliation is not my cup of tea, but humiliation is what I felt as the cops marched me to their squad car and slid me into the back, where the molded plastic seat still smelled faintly of vomit from the last person who bummed a ride with them. I ducked my head, hoping none of my neighbors were watching. I felt more embarrassed than the time, as a neophyte dancer, I’d danced the samba walk backward. Terror blanked my mind as detectives Lissy and Troy marched me into the large all-brick building on Mill Road. I took in only the foggiest details: uniformed cops, laughter, scents of coffee and pizza, harsh fluorescent lighting. Snippets of conversations bounced off my eardrums without sinking in. “… since the Redskins traded for McNabb… court appearance tomorrow… can’t believe she slept with… vacation days this year.” None of it made sense. My being here didn’t make sense. I hadn’t killed Rafe.