by Lisa Fernow
DEAD ON HER FEET
A TANGO MYSTERY
LISA FERNOW
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Text copyright © 2013 by Lisa Fernow
Originally published by Booktrope
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
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eISBN: 9781503999916
Editor: Cynthia White
Cover Designer: Loretta Matson
This title was previously published by Booktrope; this version has been reproduced from Booktrope archive files.
To My Family
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER 1: Abrazo
CHAPTER 2: Velocity
CHAPTER 3: Rank Offense
CHAPTER 4: Grave Matters
CHAPTER 5: Humiliation
CHAPTER 6: Chasing the Ghost
CHAPTER 7: Amague
CHAPTER 8: Obstacles
CHAPTER 9: Sacada
CHAPTER 10: Love Without a Premontion
CHAPTER 11: Think Hard
CHAPTER 12: Volcada
CHAPTER 13: What's in a Name?
CHAPTER 14: Survival of the Fittest
CHAPTER 15: Discovery
CHAPTER 16: Halloween Preparations
CHAPTER 17: Halloween Night
CHAPTER 18: Catfight
CHAPTER 19: Showdown
CHAPTER 20: Rejection
CHAPTER 21: Obstacles
CHAPTER 22: Salida
CHAPTER 23: Day of the Dead
CHAPTER 24: Deja Vu
CHAPTER 25: First Murderers
CHAPTER 26: Secondary Players
CHAPTER 27: Grunt Work
CHAPTER 28: Traspie
CHAPTER 29: Arrepentida
CHAPTER 30: Ir hacia atrás
CHAPTER 31: Digging
CHAPTER 32: Et tu, Brute?
CHAPTER 33: Elimination
CHAPTER 34: Shanghaied
CHAPTER 35: Antonia Blakeley Cleans Up
CHAPTER 36: The Play's the Thing
CHAPTER 37: Embellishment
CHAPTER 38: Dumb Show
CHAPTER 39: Letdown
CHAPTER 40: Christian
CHAPTER 41: Quilombo
CHAPTER 42: Sam
CHAPTER 43: Dead Letters
CHAPTER 44: Forgiveness
CHAPTER 45: Loose Ends
CHAPTER 46: Parejas
CHAPTER 47: Love
CHAPTER 48: The Spell's Wound Up
CHAPTER 49: Esperar
CHAPTER 50: Ahora, no me conoces
CHAPTER 51: Justice
CHAPTER 52: La Hora Cero
TO MY READERS
GLOSSARY OF TANGO TERMS
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
PROLOGUE
Chattahoochee River National Recreation Area, Atlanta
THE ELEGANTLY SUITED ANTIQUES DEALER stood on a slab of bedrock jutting out into the Chattahoochee River and gazed out at Devil’s Race Course Shoals. The water level had been unseasonably low that July so he had been able to walk out practically into the middle of the channel without wetting his dress shoes.
In a few minutes the sun would set and the park would officially close. The water enthusiasts would pull their rafts from the rapids and the hikers would turn back on their trails to return to their cars and eventually, reluctantly, to civilization. Thunder rumbled in the distance.
Getting out into nature, far removed from his normal milieu, normally helped him to clear his mind but the Argentina business was different. Shameful. What should he do? Calling in the police was out of the question. He tried to play out the alternatives, weighing the consequences of each.
The thunder grew louder.
He pulled his cell phone out of his jacket pocket and dialed a number he knew better than to call but the unaccustomed wine he’d drunk at dinner overrode his better judgment. The phone rang five times. Finally a message came on instructing him to leave his name.
He said, “I need to talk to you. It’s important. Pick up. Pick up.”
He rambled into the phone at length as darkness fell, failing to notice that the river had begun to rise.
CHAPTER 1
Abrazo
Embrace
Atlanta
ANTONIA SETTLED HAPPILY into Eduardo Sanchez’ arms and closed her eyes, giving her body time to know his again. His freshly shaved cheek felt warm and tacky from the humidity. She took a deep breath and caught the faint notes of bergamot and tobacco from his cologne. Her heartbeat quickened, but he didn’t move. She could tell he wanted to. She wanted him to. But Eduardo always took his slow, sweet Argentine time: it drove her crazy in all the right ways. They took a breath together and he drew her an exquisite millimeter closer.
Calo’s orchestra played the first few melancholy notes to “Que Falta Me Haces,” the violins, piano, and bandoneon each contributing their thread of the sad conversation. She and Eduardo stood together for the first introductory bars, allowing their connection to build.
Antonia felt Eduardo inhale, this time more deeply. He shifted his weight, bringing her onto her left foot. On his exhale he took one deliberate sidestep, the quality of his movement expressing the lushness of the music. She went with him, a split second too quickly, although no one but an experienced milonguero would notice.
She felt the muscles in his cheek flex against hers. Her friend was smiling.
He stepped again, placing his foot softly, and this time she followed to the end of the beat, taking the full intimate, intoxicating moment.
The tenor crooned, looking for the woman who was no longer there, the longing and torment in his voice almost too much to bear.
Eduardo led a compact, unhurried turn, transmitting the music through his body into hers. Sensing her response he replied in kind with another soulful, tender giro and she lost track of where he ended and she began and there was nothing but the music and their shared, ecstatic heartbreak—
—BRRRRINGGGG.
She flinched and Eduardo relaxed his hold. The spell was broken. She opened her eyes and Eduardo’s features came gradually back into focus: ebony hair flecked with silver, brooding eyes, his lined face bearing witness to a life filled with both great happiness and deep sorrow. Then the room: the black and white publicity stills signed by her favorite tango masters, the DJ station, the vintage Carlos Gardel poster her students had given her for her thirtieth birthday, bistro tables dotting the perimeter. And on the nearest one, the phone, still ringing away.
Eduardo said, “Aren’t you going to answer that?”
She glared at the offending appliance. “No.”
“Then I will. I can’t concentrate with this racket.”
“No you don’t.” Antonia laughed and drew him close again. Eduardo had been called home unexpectedly to Buenos Aires, something to do with a patient, and unless she stowed away in his suitcase it would be her last chance to work with him until Trasnochando, Atlanta’s annual tango festival. Only a week away, it felt like years as far as she was concerned.
“Let’s compromise.” He took her back into the embrace and danced her over to the phone. Still hold
ing her, he picked up the receiver with his free hand. “Velocity Studio.”
She could hear the man’s voice on the other end asking for Ms. Antonia Blakeley. She shook her head miming she was out.
Eduardo just handed her the receiver.
“Ms. Blakeley? This is Donald Porges from the Department of Housing at Georgia Tech. I hope I’m not disturbing you, ma’am, but I’m calling in regards to Christian Cookerly. You’re his guardian?”
“Yes, his aunt.”
“Well ma’am, it seems your nephew’s hacked into the university computer system again and made a few executive decisions.”
She grinned. “Has he?”
“I’m afraid so, ma’am. This time he’s bumped the President’s Scholars out of Caldwell residence hall and reassigned young ladies to the men’s floor.” Mr. Porges sounded almost wistful and Antonia wondered if he’d ever enjoyed a good old-fashioned panty raid. “Also, it would appear he’s given himself a female roommate even though he’s not actually signed up for campus housing this fall.”
Dear Christian, he’s really outdone himself this time. Antonia buried her face in Eduardo’s shirtfront to stifle her laughter. “I see.”
“What we have here, ma’am, is a buddin’ case of nonacademic misconduct. He’ll have to go before the UJC if I report him.”
And we can’t have that, can we, Antonia thought. “How about a deal? I’ll have Christian put everybody back where they belong if you forget this happened. Save you the pain of doing the data entry yourselves, or whatever you have to do. I’m so terrible at computer science, it’s not just a matter of an ‘unsend’ button is it?” She looked up at Eduardo and winked.
“Christian is a very talented young man, Ms. Blakeley, and we like him a lot here but you understand we can’t have him messin’ with our systems.”
“He’d be fixing them,” she countered, knowing she could talk Mr. Porges around as she’d done with all the other Georgia Tech staff who’d called to complain about some antic or other of Christian’s in the year since she’d taken over as his guardian. The last time he’d hacked the online course catalog it had taken the administration three weeks to realize they were offering Game Design for Geeks as a subject. “No harm, no foul—what do you say? Maybe he can throw in a few upgrades.”
The earnest official exhaled noisily into the phone. “Ma’am. This is the last time. Remind him the President’s Scholars are supposed to have priority.”
“Thank you so, so much, Mr. Porges.” She put down the phone and turned back to Eduardo. “It’s funny but it isn’t really. Christian spends all his time on the computer, night and day. I worry about what it’s doing to his social skills. You read about all those Romanian orphans and how they have trouble with attachment.”
“Does he seem alienated? Withdrawn?”
Of course, she should have realized the minute she used a term like attachment to a psychoanalyst it was bound to spark a professional reaction. She considered his question and decided whiz kids were that way by definition. “No more than you’d expect.”
“Does he crave attention?”
“No, just the opposite.”
“Is he sexually promiscuous?”
“Only virtually, that’s what I’m concerned about. He never gets out. The only thing he knows about women he learns from websites and fantasy role-playing games.”
“Has he joined a gang?”
“No, but he had a violent childhood. You know his history.”
Eduardo said, “Not really. And neither do you.”
“His parents managed to do each other in during a domestic disturbance—that’s Child Protective Services’ euphemism, not mine—and he witnessed it.”
“But he doesn’t remember what happened.”
“And why is that? Because he’s traumatized.”
“Antonia, what are we really talking about?”
Antonia walked over to one of the bistro tables and plunked herself down in the nearest chair. “Christian needs a father figure. You’re a man of the world. You could be a good example for him. Stay here for the fall season and help me teach the fundamentals class.”
“I would be delighted, you know that. But my patients need me. At least they think they do.”
“Can’t they lie on the couch and call you in Atlanta to tell you their dreams?”
Eduardo laughed. “Perhaps you should trust Christian to find his own path. He is practically an adult.”
“Are you kidding? He’s not even eighteen. He doesn’t have a frontal lobe yet. He needs to meet real, live women in a structured environment where he can develop some social skills.” Antonia reached down to undo the straps of her Comme Il Fauts, the only dance shoes that gave her enough height to embrace Eduardo at anything close to eye level. She slipped out of them and regressed to five foot four. “I know. I’ll bring him to class.”
“Isn’t that throwing him into the deep end? Tango can stir up powerful emotions.”
“You’re afraid it will mess with his head?”
“I am more concerned about his heart.”
“Don’t worry. I have everything under control.”
Eduardo shook his head and his smile faded.
CHAPTER 2
Velocity
VELOCITY STUDIO HAD ONCE BEEN a schoolhouse, the kind ruled by teachers who sent girls home for wearing long pants to class. In Antonia’s opinion she’d righted a cosmic wrong when she’d turned the building into a dance studio.
Her Sunday Tango Fundamental series officially started at three thirty but many of her students had arrived early to warm up. Twenty out of thirty-two so far. She’d started with Di Sarli to set the mood. His music presented a clear, steady heartbeat for the beginners but the melodies were still lush and evocative.
Christian slouched against the wall a few feet away, hands thrust into the pockets of his sagging jeans, a lock of curly black hair tumbling over his forehead. He’d worn his favorite Led Zeppelin T-shirt. With his pallor and soulful eyes plenty of girls would find him romantically attractive in a vampire-romance-loving sort of way. Christian caught her looking his way and shot her a twisted smile rolling his eyes in feigned boredom which meant he was having a not-too-terrible time. Just as well since she’d practically press-ganged him into coming to class.
Things were going according to plan. The next move was to get him onto the floor.
“Ant!”
Antonia turned to find Shawna Muir in her usual Shakti yoga tank and pants, auburn hair disciplined into a bun, the expression on her freckled face looking suspiciously beatific. She waved discreetly and Antonia spotted the engagement ring on her friend’s left hand.
“Holy moly,” Antonia said. “He actually did it?”
Shawna kissed her cheek, Argentine style: their usual greeting. “Don’t be rude.”
“I can’t believe you didn’t call.”
“I wanted to but Roland thought it would be fun for me to tell you in person. And he has something to ask.”
Right on cue in strode the man himself, Mr. Tall, Dark and Handsome, sporting twill pants, an Augusta National Golf Club shirt, and a smile, all of which looked like they’d been pressed at the dry cleaner’s. To Antonia’s dismay Roland made straight for her. “So, Maestra, what do you think? Will you do us the honor of being our matron of honor? Not that you’re matronly in any way.”
Oh God. “When is it?”
“We haven’t finalized the date.”
That’s hardly surprising, Antonia thought. Roland never commits to anything. “Shawna’s my best friend, of course I’ll do it. Just don’t throw me the bouquet.”
Roland and Shawna changed into their dance shoes and made their way to the edge of the floor. Shawna draped her arm around his shoulders and settled against his chest. Roland shifted from side to side to get a feel for her weight before taking his first step: the salida. He led her around the room, walking slow, slow, quick-quick, slow, punctuating the sprightly beat. When the music tur
ned romantic Roland led a low voleo causing Shawna’s free foot to trail the floor in a graceful arc. From the expression on Shawna’s face Antonia could tell Roland was sending her to tango heaven which was a miracle considering what was going on around them.
Tango Fundamentals was one of her favorite classes to teach because it mixed all levels of dancers and helped build community. Advanced dancers came for the opportunity to deepen their technique. Newer dancers came for the opportunity to dance with the experienced ones. Many of her students were beginners so they could be forgiven for not understanding how to navigate well yet. Everyone was supposed to be traveling counterclockwise around the room but there was always the rogue couple. Bobby Glass and his partner struggled to stay on course but only succeeded in looking like a horse costume going two places at once.
When Bobby had originally broached the idea of inviting his colleague, Barbara Wolfe, to class, he’d described her as a paleontology professor might, if the woman in question were forty thousand years old. Five foot five, twenty-eight, wiry build, well-defined clavicles, and a chip on her front tooth. Of course he’d failed to mention her most striking features: her vitality, and a glorious mass of hot-chili hair, which at the moment was threatening to burst free from its barrettes. But he had volunteered Barbara’s entire curriculum vitae, unnecessary but interesting. Originally from Tennessee. Visiting Archaeology lecturer on loan to Emory from the University of Maryland specializing in cranial deformation practices of the Inca Empire, which sounded quite bloodthirsty. Basically he’d told Antonia everything except his reason for bringing her but Antonia already knew that.
People were drawn to tango for many reasons, some healthy, some decidedly less so. After working with Bobby, Antonia had concluded that he, like many intellectuals, had come to find his heart. He was unaware of this, naturally, but she had plans for him.
Bobby tried to lead a side step but he’d put Barbara on the wrong foot and she stumbled.
“Hey! Don’t forget the gal you brung, sugar.”
“Sorry, sorry. Lost the beat.” Bobby smoothed a strand of hair over his bald spot and took Barbara back in his arms.