Dead on Her Feet (An Antonia Blakeley Tango Mystery Book 1)

by Lisa Fernow

  Antonia turned off the music. “Welcome.” It was always the same dynamic in the beginning. The men checked out the women to see if there were any hot prospects while the women counted the men to see if there were enough to go around. “This isn’t the performance tango you might have seen on Broadway or in the movies. We’ll be dancing the social tango that people dance in Argentina. It’s also known as close embrace because you dance ‘on the body’— sternum to sternum.”

  She caught Christian eyeing one of the Emory students. “Sure you don’t want to join us?”

  He shook his head, no way Jose, but she knew it was only a matter of time before he’d participate. It was all about creating a welcoming climate.

  “Social tango is basically a walking dance. The old milongueros will tell you it takes a lifetime to master.” She watched the usual apprehensive looks flash across the beginners’ faces. “For the next few weeks we’re going to concentrate on fundamentals which will be enough to get you out on the floor. Just a bit of housekeeping—don’t forget to buy your tickets for Trasnochando. It starts August 5, that’s just a week from now. We still have a couple of private lessons available with Eduardo Sanchez for those who missed him on his last visit. And if anyone can offer up a spare bedroom for our out-of-town guests, let me know.”

  She queued up Di Sarli’s “Champagne Tango” and invited Roland to join her in the center of the room. They demonstrated a simple tango. Roland’s clear lead and lighthearted musicality made for a pleasant, if superficial, dance. When they finished the class clapped and Antonia was heartened to see Christian join in the applause.

  She led the class through a series of basic exercises on posture, the embrace, and walking, and then asked people to find a partner and walk to the music. Restarting “Champagne Tango” she made the rounds, correcting individual technique and basically encouraging everyone to get comfortable. When the song ended she called the class back.

  “Tango can be about many things—seduction, longing, nostalgia, intimacy, tenderness— you get the picture. Whatever the music and the moment inspires. This song isn’t one we normally dance to but I happen to think it’s a beautiful piece, especially if you understand the words. It’s called ‘Uno.’ One.” Uno, oh yeah, she thought.

  “He gave away his heart to a woman who betrayed him and now he can’t love the way he used to. That’s life and death stuff.” She was pleased to see Christian nodding, solemnly. “For this exercise I want you to move with whatever emotion inspires you. No partners. Walk around the room in the line of dance, counterclockwise, everyone, remember? Don’t worry about steps, the idea is to get used to feeling the music and transmitting it through your bodies.”

  Antonia started the track, savoring the instrumental opening. When Sosa finally started to sing the yearning in his voice punctured her heart as it never failed to do. The class shuffled around the room, some self-consciously, others with more abandon. One of the Emory students seemed to be channeling Martha Graham, in a good way.

  Something out of the corner of her eye caught her attention: a stranger, not that much taller than she was, standing in the doorway. His military bearing, neatly trimmed mustache, and close-cropped sandy hair would have conveyed unyielding strength if it hadn’t been for the fact that his eyes were pale blue and his nose had been broken at least once. He would have been just her type if she were interested in a relationship.

  It wasn’t unusual to have people wander in off the streets, curious to see what tango was about, emotions from embarrassment to titillation writ large on their faces. But this man seemed strangely unfazed. And he was wearing a coat and tie so he probably wasn’t a prospective student. Too bad: the women would have loved him. She went over to find out what he wanted.

  “Name’s Morrow, ma’am. Atlanta police.”

  Oh swell. Another of our city’s finest. She summoned up her best professional voice, “What can I do for you?”

  “I’m looking for Roland Guest. His assistant said I could find him here.”

  What’s the Charming Child been up to? Her initial defensiveness immediately gave way to curiosity.

  Roland drifted into range. Antonia caught his eye and tipped her head towards the detective. Roland abandoned the exercise and sauntered over.

  “Mr. Guest?” Detective Morrow asked.

  “Guilty as charged.” Roland appeared perfectly guilt free, but then again he always did.

  The detective politely introduced himself and said, “Miles Rothenberg. Your business partner. When’s the last time you saw him?”

  Roland hesitated. “Miles? Why, has he run off with the silver?”

  The detective didn’t smile.

  Antonia felt her stomach seize up.

  CHAPTER 3

  Rank Offense

  CLOSELY WATCHING ROLAND GUEST’S body language, Morrow explained how a kayaker, ignoring the danger from e coli and looking to shoot the “Hootch,” had spotted Miles Rothenberg’s corpse spit up by the Chattahoochee River onto its rocky shoals. Not that he’d put it that baldly to a civilian.

  “Jesus!” Guest glanced away.

  Morrow was holding back the fact that a second 9-1-1 had been placed that same morning. This one from New York City. According to the dispatcher a distraught Lauren Weiss Rothenberg reported her ex-husband had left a drunk-dial message on her answering machine rambling about his business partner Roland Guest engaging in some shameful activity and, apparently, saying goodbye for keeps.

  It wasn’t clear, yet, how Miles Rothenberg had met his maker and what role Roland Guest might have played. The antiques dealer had gone in fully clothed from his Hermes tie down to his handmade leather-soled shoes, slick in both senses of the word. His body showed effects from being batted about in the river but no obvious signs of an attack. Suicide, accident, or murder—all options were technically still on the table—but in the end, regardless of who was responsible, it would come down to the same cause of death. Stupidity.

  Roland Guest clearly came from money. The country club tan gave him away. Six feet tall, about one ninety, mostly health club muscle. Could easily have taken Rothenberg in a fight.

  “Poor Miles.” Guest lowered his voice, downshifting from shock to sorrow, although neither emotion seemed genuine. “I can’t believe it.”

  Interestingly, Guest didn’t ask the usual question—how did it happen? Maybe he already knew. “I’ll need you to come with me, sir. We’ll need a formal ID.”

  The dance instructor, who’d been listening with openmouthed dismay, took Guest’s hesitation as an opportunity to butt in. “Are you positive it’s Miles? The police make mistakes all the time.”

  No arguments there, Morrow thought, hiding his amusement. In his twenty years as a cop he’d seen more snafus than he had as a career Marine, which was saying something. In this case the corpse’s face had been eaten away but Rothenberg’s wallet had provided the needed calling card. “We’re pretty sure on this one, ma’am.”

  “What happened? What was Miles doing at the Chattahoochee? He’s a strictly urban guy.”

  Seems to know him pretty well, Morrow thought. She could be useful. He reached into his jacket pocket for his notebook. “Ma’am, would you mind giving me your full name and phone number?”

  The woman sized him up like a wrestler weighing her options to pin him to the mat, which was pretty funny—she couldn’t have topped a hundred and ten soaking wet. Midthirties. A rakish white streak ran through her otherwise brown, nearly waist-long hair, which was pulled back in a severe ponytail as if to downplay her femininity. It wasn’t working. An almost invisible scar on her left cheekbone underscored the determination in her face. He’d seen that type of injury before with battered women. “It’s Antonia Blakeley. Ms.” She rattled off her phone number. “And would you mind giving me your name and contact information, too?”

  It never paid to get into a pissing match with a member of the public. He brought out one of his business cards.

  She inspe
cted it. “Detective S. Morrow.” That seemed to satisfy her because her expression softened. She looked up at Guest and said, “Roland, I’m sorry. Miles was a good man.”

  “One of the best.” Guest pulled out a handkerchief and blotted his forehead. “Excuse the heat. We’re in the middle of a tango lesson.”

  Could’ve fooled me, Morrow thought. One woman in an Indian shirt was spinning and waving her arms like some underwater Hindu goddess, eyeing Guest and pretending not to. “When did you see him last, sir?”

  “I spoke with him on the phone Tuesday night. Miles was supposed to help me manage the store on Friday but he never made it.”

  The dance instructor turned on Guest. “And you didn’t call or go look for him?”

  Witnesses were often more frank talking to each other. And Ms. Blakeley was asking good questions. Morrow decided to let her run.

  “Now Antonia,” Guest said in a patronizing tone. “Just because a guy fails to show for work doesn’t mean it’s a police matter.”

  Blakeley didn’t give an inch. Atta girl. She planted her hands on her hips and shot back, “Maybe not, but you and I both know that wasn’t like him.”

  Guest said, “I never thought Miles was the type to kill himself.”

  “He wasn’t,” Blakeley countered flatly.

  Morrow said, “Any reason to believe your business partner was thinking of suicide, sir?”

  Guest shook his head. “I wouldn’t know. Miles was a very private person.”

  Blakeley asked, “Did he leave a note?”

  The dead man hadn’t left one at his home, which made suicide less likely, but there was no value in sharing that news. “It’s early days, ma’am.”

  Guest hadn’t shown any unusual signs of nervousness over cause of death so Morrow switched topics, watching for any betraying signs of self-grooming. “Did he have any financial troubles?”

  The antiques dealer brushed a nonexistent bead of sweat from his upper lip. “The business is running well in the black. I can’t speak for his personal finances.” Guest refolded his handkerchief and slipped it back into his pocket. “As I’m his business partner I imagine it will fall to me to make the necessary … ah … arrangements. And you’ll want my help with his personal effects.”

  Morrow pretended to consult his notes but he was really just letting Guest dangle, hoping he’d volunteer something else, but Guest kept his cool. “I understand there’s an ex-wife. Lauren Weiss Rothenberg. Cell phone record shows he called her.” Technically true; Guest couldn’t know they didn’t talk.

  “Oh. Of course.” Guest gazed longingly at the exit. “I know this sounds callous but Miles would understand. I’m supposed to leave for BA—Buenos Aires. I have pressing business there.”

  What’s this big dog got to do in Argentina that’s so important, Morrow thought. “Afraid you’ll have to wait.”

  “How long?”

  “Just a few days for the autopsy.”

  “You can’t cut him up,” Ms. Blakeley interrupted. “Miles was Jewish. It’s a violation or a humiliation, I forget which.”

  “Sorry, ma’am,” Morrow said, neatly cutting her off, but his next comment, the one he’d been waiting to make all along, was really directed at Guest. “We have to eliminate the possibility of homicide. Rest assured, there will be a full investigation.”

  Guest blanched.

  Morrow smiled to himself. Ooh-rah.

  CHAPTER 4

  Grave Matters

  AS MORROW EXPECTED the preliminary report showed Miles Rothenberg had drowned. The stretch of water where he’d gone in had been too shallow for anyone to reliably kill themselves or anyone else, and there had been reports of flash flooding that night. The tox exam would establish whether drugs or alcohol had helped him along, but unless it revealed evidence of poisoning the death would be ruled an accident.

  That just left the unexplained call Rothenberg made to his ex-wife. Guest was clearly up to something. Hopefully the dead man’s last words would give them reason to continue investigating.

  Morrow had arranged to meet Jackson, the new partner he was breaking in, half an hour before Rothenberg’s funeral. The plan was to observe how Guest handled himself at the service, assuming he hadn’t already left for Argentina. Then Morrow would interview Lauren Weiss Rothenberg and take custody of the answering machine tape, as arranged, and Jackson would follow Guest. It wasn’t clear where that might lead but it was good practice for the recently promoted detective, and if Guest spotted an eager young greenhorn trailing him, that could have its good points, too. Improvise, adapt, and overcome.

  Oakland Cemetery represented a Who’s Who of Atlanta’s dead. Gone with the Wind author Margaret Mitchell and golfer Bobby Jones were buried there, as well as governors, Confederate soldiers, and even slaves—buried under both their own names and the names of their owners. A section had been set aside in antebellum times for what the guidebooks called “people of the Jewish faith.” Miles Rothenberg’s forebears had managed to snag a plot.

  Morrow decided to take up observation thirty feet from the grave where a stand of oaks would provide cover. If the funeral party turned out to be large enough he’d slip into the crowd to observe at closer range. If not, he’d pretend to be calling on another of the honored dead. A mockingbird trilled, cheeped and warbled on one of the carefully tended lawns.

  Morrow spotted Jackson trotting down the brick path, beige raincoat open and flapping behind him. The younger man drew up, slightly out of breath, earnest face contorted in an expression of apology. “Sorry, sir. Traffic on Martin Luther King, sir. But I secured the information you requested.”

  “You’re right on time and knock off the ‘sirs,’ son.”

  Jackson brought out his notes. “Miles Rothenberg and Roland Guest jointly owned an art and antiques shop called Rothenberg Guest European and Asian Acquisitions. Real fancy setup. Paintings, oriental rugs and carpets, sculpture, antique furniture. At that location for twelve years. According to Rothenberg’s lawyer, his share of the business passes directly to Guest and most of his personal assets will go to Lauren Weiss Rothenberg, his ex-wife.”

  “That’s good work.”

  “Guest had dinner at Aria with Shawna Muir on Thursday night. The staff remembers because he proposed over dessert. If he had anything to do with the deceased’s, uh, unfortunate accident, sir, we’ll have to be real careful, sir. You know who his family is, don’t you?”

  Whoa Bessie. Not those Guests. One of the most over-privileged families in Atlanta. “I do now.”

  “Mrs. Rothenberg hadn’t left New York so her alibi checks.”

  “Good. What about Rothenberg’s last movements?”

  “Looks like he ate dinner at home on Thursday. Last credit card purchase was at Publix. Rotisserie chicken, salad stuff, bottle of wine. We’re fixin’ to get the phone records.”

  A hearse pulled into view on the winding path. A fair size crowd followed on foot. Miles Rothenberg had been loved or at least respected. The vehicle halted periodically and the mourners recited a prayer at each stop. Morrow spotted Guest in the middle of the pack with his arm around the woman who’d watched him in class. Antonia Blakeley had turned up with two other people he’d seen at the dance studio: a thin red-haired woman and a portly man with a comb-over. The mourners chatted among themselves with more animation than he usually saw at Christian funerals.

  Jackson said, “The lady in the blue raincoat, that’s his fiancée. Shawna Muir. Flight attendant.”

  “She was at the dance class. Seemed concerned to see me questioning Guest. Any link to Rothenberg?”

  “Not so far, sir. Who’s the lady with the long brown hair waving her umbrella?”

  “Ms. Antonia Blakeley to you. Dance teacher.”

  “What the heck’s she doing, landing a plane?”

  “Organizing the mourners, probably.” Morrow chuckled. “You should have seen her the other day. Ordering the class around like a drill instructor. Tried to horn in
on the investigation.”

  The hearse stopped and six pallbearers shifted the simple pine coffin onto their shoulders and bore it to the grave. The mourners gathered. One woman stood alone. She wore a black ribbon on her trench coat, which made her a member of the family. Lauren Weiss Rothenberg.

  Morrow signaled to Jackson. They left their observation post and joined the group, keeping close to Guest but out of his sight line.

  The rabbi spoke in Hebrew, then in English: “O thou that dwellest in the covert of the Most High and abidest in the shadow of the Almighty …” He did full justice to the psalm, but in Morrow’s experience, evil did touch people who said their prayers.

  Just as the rabbi finished it began to drizzle.

  After the coffin was lowered into the ground Lauren Weiss Rothenberg picked up a shovel, turned the blade face down and jabbed it into the soil. Morrow heard the scrape of metal against stones. She turned towards the grave and flicked the shovel. Dirt and pebbles rained down onto the box. She placed the shovel on the ground and turned back towards the other mourners.

  Morrow watched Blakeley go up to her and offer condolences. He got the impression they’d not met before. He waited to see if Guest would do the same.

  Guest had been standing at the fringes looking off into the distance. He took his hands out of his pockets and approached the grieving woman. “Lauren.”

  She whipped around. “You! Don’t speak to me.”

  Guest stepped back, astonished. “Lauren—”

  “You’re responsible for this.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You have some nerve, you slick son of a bitch.” Lauren reached for the shovel but before she could put it to use Ms. Blakeley stepped between them.

  “Time to go.” Blakeley grabbed Guest by the arm and hauled him out of reach, no mean feat considering their height and weight differences.

  The Rabbi did his best to rise above the commotion. He made it through the memorial prayer and bade the non–family members to form two lines. As the mourners passed Rothenberg’s widow, those who knew it recited the traditional condolence, “May God comfort you among all the mourners of Zion and Jerusalem.”