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

by Lisa Fernow

  Christian shrugged. “Kowabunga.” He placed his right arm across her back but instead of meeting her sternum he looked down, turning his body into a human comma.

  “It’s okay,” Shawna said.

  “I don’t want to step on you.”

  “Don’t worry, you won’t.”

  Bobby and his partner listed dangerously near. “It’s true,” he yodeled joyfully over his shoulder to Christian. “I never step on Shawna’s feet. Don’t know why.”

  Antonia knew why. Shawna was a good dancer and knew how to get out of the way. But with Bobby she back-led. Followers weren’t supposed to do that but with Bobby it was a matter of self-preservation.

  “Just walk,” Antonia said.

  Shawna turned to Antonia and pointedly raised her eyebrows. “Don’t you have a class to teach?”

  Seeing Christian was well in hand Antonia waited until the tune ended and went to start the class. “Is everyone warmed up? Sorry about the sauna, the air conditioner guy can’t come ’til next week.”

  The students groaned.

  “Today we’re going to cover sacadas. A sacada is a displacement. It looks like you’re pushing the woman’s leg out of the way with yours but that’s just an illusion.” She invited Shawna to help demonstrate as she walked the class through the move. “Leaders, as your follower takes an open step, you step in towards your partner’s center, taking the space that she leaves. Watch where you put her weight and don’t kick her leg out.”

  She took questions, cued up Di Sarli’s stately and sultry “Cuando El Amor Muere” and directed the class to try the move to music. “We’ve got more women than men today so, followers, rotate after each song. Make sure you let someone in who didn’t dance the last time.”

  Roland took Barbara in his arms. After a few weight changes he led her in a simple walk and repent step. As he led her forward to his right he stepped towards Barbara’s center to initiate the sacada, but midway through the step he looked towards the door and shifted back on his heels, taking Barbara off her axis.

  Antonia followed Roland’s gaze to see what had broken his concentration.

  Oh, for heaven’s sakes.

  “Hellooooo, everyone.” Nathalie LeFebre posed in the doorway and wiggled her fingers. Black leotard, pink flounce skirt, spike-heeled silver shoes with open toes. Bubblegum lipstick. Everything about her outfit screamed ballroom competition.

  Nathalie made her entrance, the mirrors reflecting and multiplying her image, and Antonia felt the energy in the room electrify like the air right before a thunderstorm. Nathalie’s star power was such that everyone stopped and stared; the men frankly interested, the women disappointed it wasn’t another man. Bobby just blinked like he’d found dinosaur remains in the wrong geologic period. Christian’s face lit up and Antonia uneasily remembered how flustered he’d gotten over Nathalie at El Abrazo.

  What in the world was she doing back in Atlanta? She was just here. So she said, cheerfully, “Take five, everyone,” as if she’d planned a break all along, and went to intercept The Interloper. Roland, trailing closely behind, seemed to have the same plan.

  “Hi. How nice to see you again,” Antonia said, not meaning it.

  “Hello.” Nathalie offered her a limp hand to shake. Antonia gave it a good hard squeeze.

  “What are you doing here?” Roland said under his breath.

  “I couldn’t wait, darling,” Nathalie said and planted a smooch on Roland’s mouth.

  That’s no courtesy Hollywood peck, Antonia thought. Glancing at Shawna she saw her friend had put on her airline face: the persona that enabled experienced flight attendants to carry on in the face of air rage, bawling children, and groping drunks.

  “Are you joining us today?” Antonia asked Nathalie.

  Roland quickly said, “I mentioned you were teaching a class.”

  Nathalie picked a stray grain of mascara off one eyelash. “Roland said you’d studied in Argentina so I thought I should give you a chance.”

  The temptation to toss Nathalie out on her tutu was nearly irresistible but Antonia knew that would disrupt the class even more, so instead, she gushed, “I’m so sorry I didn’t get to see you out on the floor at Trasnochando,” keeping a straight face as she remembered how Eduardo had frog-marched Nathalie out of the milonga.

  By that time Shawna had collected herself, walked over and extended her hand, taking up Antonia’s cue with the aplomb of a cold war diplomat. “We met last month. I’m Shawna Muir.”

  Nathalie tilted her head back and half-closed her eyelids. “Oh. Roland’s friend.”

  “Fiancée, actually,” Shawna said, fanning herself.

  Nathalie dabbed at the gloss on her upper lip with the back of a manicured fingernail.

  “Let me introduce you to the others.” Roland hastily took Nathalie by the elbow and steered her away.

  Bobby poked forward and thrust out his hand, seemingly oblivious to the tension between the women. “Robert Glass.”

  Roland added, “Bobby’s a Professor of Geology and Paleontology at Emory.”

  “Oh how thrilling,” Nathalie said, “just like Cary Grant!”

  Bobby blinked and Antonia could tell that the Bringing Up Baby reference had gone right past him. “Sorry about our weather,” he said to Nathalie, his bald spot glistening in silent testimony.

  “I won’t shake hands, I’m too sweaty,” Barbara said. Antonia imagined a dog sniffing another dog and not liking the result.

  Nathalie looked over Barbara’s shoulder. Seeing Christian she gave him a beauty queen touch-pearls-and-wave greeting. “So, handsome, are you learning tango now?”

  Christian blushed. “Sort of. I mean, she’s teaching and I guess I’m learning.”

  “Save a dance for me in that case,” Nathalie said, kissing the air in his direction.

  Antonia decided the best course of action was to keep Nathalie far, far away from Roland and Christian. She could count on the other men to help on that front. She cued the CD player to start the Di Sarli song again. “Let’s try the sacada again with a new partner,” she said.

  But Shawna went to sit by the DJ station instead of going after Roland, and Nathalie snagged him. There was a covert musical chairs scuffle as everyone else sorted themselves out. The women without partners stood to the side waiting their turn. Barbara joined Christian in the corner. Antonia went over to see if she could get them onto the floor.

  “I might just give you a chance? What the hell does she know about tango?” Barbara hissed to Christian, her freckled face nearly as red as her hair. “She doesn’t even have the right shoes, for Christ’s sake. Look at them. Spangled.”

  Christian murmured, “She didn’t mean to be insulting.”

  “Are you kidding? Don’t be naïve.”

  Antonia slipped her arm around Barbara’s shoulders. “Smile and keep your thoughts to yourself.”

  “I’m not a fucking Southern belle.”

  “That’s definitely an oxymoron. Come on, work with Christian or give someone else a chance.”

  Barbara reluctantly allowed Christian to take her in his arms. Antonia inspected his posture. “Stand up proud. That’s better. Your lead should come from the direction of your weight changes. Beautiful. Now get out there.”

  Christian did his best to lead Barbara around the dance floor in a walk. She wasn’t making it easy. Instead of stepping softly, like a cat, Barbara ground the balls of her feet into the floor. But at least Christian was out of the way.

  Antonia turned her attention back to Nathalie. She’d arranged her left arm around Roland’s neck, forearm perfectly parallel to his shoulders, fingers and thumb extended together, rigid and pointing like a horizontal military salute. From her stylized posture it was obvious she wasn’t a social tango dancer. Roland whispered something and she pressed closer.

  Seeing this, Shawna crossed her legs, picked up a Bridge to the Tango magazine, and began fanning herself with it.

  Sensing her friend’s d
iscomfort Antonia went over to Roland and Nathalie to pry them apart. The best strategy, she decided, would be to teach them to death. “Roland, don’t thrust your chest out so far.” She then looked carefully at Nathalie’s frame and asked, “Do you get a lot of lower back pain when you dance a lot?”

  “Oh yes,” Nathalie moued. “All the time.”

  “I think it will help if you make a slight modification. Your chest and arms are strong but you want to avoid what I call cheerleader stance.” Where your ass sticks out, you rotten human being. “If you let your seat come down half an inch you’ll get better alignment in your axis. Like this, may I?” Antonia placed her hands on Nathalie’s pelvis and spine and made a slight adjustment. Holding on to Nathalie to keep her from going anywhere she called out, “Followers, rotate.”

  “You’re with me, Roland,” Barbara said, and Antonia released her hold on Nathalie congratulating herself on how easily she’d separated them.

  But Nathalie, seeing her quarry stolen out from under her, promptly locked eyes with Christian.

  Antonia reached for Nathalie again, but it was too late. Nathalie slithered over to where Christian stood, coiled her arm around his shoulders and drew his arm around her back. Christian didn’t know how to lead a sacada and he was so flabbergasted to be holding Nathalie in his arms he couldn’t have anyway, so they just walked. Worse, they talked. Antonia could just about hear his side of the conversation, something about websites. “I’ll send you the URL … looking at it the other day … dance shoes … your feet… it’s easy, actually… no bother really … yes, a little poetry …”

  She had to put a stop to it, whatever “it” was. Not waiting for the song to end she just turned the CD player off, ready to blame it on technical difficulties.

  Nathalie’s voice cut through the silence. “I’m staying with Roland.”

  Roland stopped dancing and turned in Shawna’s direction. Bobby took off his glasses and polished them with his handkerchief.

  Shawna stood up. “Roland, what’s she talking about?”

  Roland stroked the back of his head. “I just told Nathalie if she was ever in Atlanta she would be welcome to stay at my place. I would have mentioned it but I didn’t think it was important.”

  Nathalie pranced over to Roland and Barbara and insinuated herself between them. “What do you mean? What did you tell me in Argentina?”

  Shawna twisted her Bridge to the Tango catalog into a tight roll. “Roland?”

  “Just a misunderstanding, darling,” he said to Shawna.

  Holy moly, Antonia thought. Roland just proposed to Shawna and he’s already cheating on her with Nathalie? For that matter, Nathalie was supposed to be in Argentina with Eduardo.

  Nathalie planted one hand on her hip. “You said you were breaking it off with her, Roland. Which one of us is it going to be?”

  The room went dead silent except for the whomp—whomp—whomp of the fan. Antonia watched Shawna fight to keep her composure and ached to give her a big hug.

  “Nathalie,” Roland entreated, “not here.”

  Shawna laid the catalog on the chair. The color rose in her cheeks as she confronted her fiancé. “Antonia was right. She told me you tried to poach Nathalie from Eduardo and I didn’t believe her.”

  Antonia saw Roland dart a black look in her direction before answering Shawna. “Shawna, I love you.”

  Nathalie gave Roland an indignant look. “That’s not what you said to me in BA. You said,” Nathalie mimicked his voice, “Shawna’s too good for me. I made a mistake proposing to her.”

  Roland opened his mouth and closed it again. He looked back and forth from one pissed-off woman to the other. Everyone just stood there waiting to see what would happen next. Only Bobby had no taste for voyeurism; he tried to drag Barbara away but she shook him off.

  This could actually be good, Antonia thought. If Roland and Nathalie end up together Nathalie will stop messing with Christian’s head and Shawna and Eduardo will be saved from terrible marriages. That is, if Roland follows through. But he’ll never settle down, not without a father and a shotgun.

  Shawna slipped the engagement ring off her finger, placed it in Roland’s hand, and closed his fingers over it. “Roland,” she said in a voice cold enough to refrigerate all of Atlanta, “take this back until you know what you want.”

  Shawna gathered her street shoes, placed them in her drawstring bag, picked up her gym bag and purse, and stalked to the exit. The door banged shut on the shortest engagement in history. Hal-le-lu-jah.

  Roland started after her. He stopped. Pivoted. Looked back at Nathalie.

  Nathalie stuck her nose in the air, savoring her victory. “Roland, darling, what did you ever see in that stewardess?” She turned and sashayed towards the exit, a modern day Delilah, leaving Roland little option but to smile weakly and follow.

  CHAPTER 10

  Love without a Premonition

  BOBBY GLASS WALKED the three short blocks from the studio to the American Roadhouse Café with some of the other students, as was their after-class ritual. He’d let Barbara, Antonia and Christian go on ahead. He needed a moment to recover. The whole scene had been terribly awkward, particularly since he might have spared Shawna the pain of a public confrontation. Had he realized the significance of what he’d seen. Not that it was his place to interfere.

  Poor Shawna. She’d done the only dignified thing.

  The one bright spot was that Roland Guest would probably stop coming to class and leave him a clear field with Barbara. Not romantically, of course, given their twelve-year age difference. Dancing with Barbara was more than enough. Dayenu, as the Passover song went. Be grateful for the gifts you have.

  Antonia reached the entrance first. She waited for everyone to catch up then pushed the door open and shepherded them all through.

  Inside the noise was at a fever pitch. The Braves were winning on all four television sets and a few drunken fans were singing, obscurely, “Hail to the Redskins.” The smell of fish and chips wafted his way, which was deceptive advertising since he had yet to find a good piece of fried cod since he’d returned from sabbatical in England. The floor felt tacky underfoot. He could really do with a beer.

  The hostess showed them to their usual table and they settled in. Barbara ordered a barbeque sandwich and tried to get him to join her but he reminded her he didn’t eat pork. He asked for a hamburger. When Antonia ordered her bacon cheeseburger rare, the new waiter, who seemed barely old enough to hold his job legally, suspended his pencil over his order pad.

  “Rare?”

  “Yes, rare.”

  “I can’t, ma’am, it’s against the law.”

  “I accept the health risk,” she said. “Just give it to me rare, you know, rare like the cow is still fighting, rare like the blush of a trollop, rare like intelligent life on this planet, rare, rare, rare, with the works, and fries, and—oh, I almost forgot—a pitcher of beer for the table.”

  Bobby interjected, “Well chilled, please.” He really enjoyed Antonia’s uninhibited use of language but sometimes she missed the essentials.

  The waiter scribbled something on his notepad and bolted to the sanity of the kitchen.

  Antonia leaned back into her chair and stretched her arms over her head. “I love messing with those guys.”

  Barbara dug through her purse, probably looking for a handkerchief. Her shirt stuck to her skin and the freckles on her arms showed through the white cotton. “Where did this precious Nathalie LeFebre come from, anyway?”

  “Trasnochando.” Antonia answered. “She was with Eduardo, told us they were practically engaged. Which I seriously doubt after today.”

  Bobby remembered Eduardo Sanchez. Sanchez had impressed him as being a decent fellow. Nathalie LeFebre, on the other hand, was a specimen outside his experience. The closest analogy he could think of was the female undergraduates who preyed on professors, perhaps attracted to the status of the position or, more unethically, hoping to exchange favors
for grades, but nothing like that had ever happened to him.

  “She thinks she’s Inca royalty,” Barbara said, blotting the perspiration from her neck. “Too good to touch the ground, is she? I’ll knock her out of her golden litter.”

  “Nathalie wants to see my writing,” Christian said to no one in particular.

  Antonia said, “Stay away from her, she’s bad news,” but Christian just turned his attention to clearing the holes in the saltshaker with the tine of his fork.

  The waiter delivered the beer. Bobby reached for a frosted mug and Antonia fixed a determined eye in his direction. “You didn’t seem at all surprised to see her. Why not?”

  She always knows, Bobby marveled. Hoping to buy himself a little time he removed his glasses, reducing Antonia’s face to a blur of shapes and colors. “How did you deduce that?”

  “When Nathalie came into the studio you put on your vacant face, the one you use when you don’t want people to know what you’re thinking.”

  Bobby felt for his pocket, drew out his handkerchief and polished his lenses. He really didn’t want to get entangled in Roland’s affairs. The more he learned about Guest the less he liked. It had nothing to do with the fact that Barbara preferred to dance with him. When Bobby put his glasses back on the first thing he noticed was the pitcher of beer restored to high definition. “Would you mind passing that, Christian?” When Christian obliged Bobby finally ventured what he hoped would be a neutral answer. “I did think he might be hosting a female guest.”

  Antonia tilted her head to one side. “And?”

  Bobby reached for the pitcher, poured beer into his mug, and drank. “Ahhh. Perfectly chilled.” That was the only way to drink beer in the US. He missed the Irish lagers which had a more bracing hop flavor.

  Antonia leaned forward and propped her elbows on the table. “Bobby. Robert. Talk. To. Me. Why did you think Roland had a woman staying with him?”