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

by Lisa Fernow

  Shawna’s fingers twitched in hers. “I have no desire to be with a man who doesn’t love me.”

  Antonia stopped dancing and held her friend at arm’s length. “What does that mean when it’s at home?”

  “Ant, let me handle this my own way. I didn’t interfere in your personal life.”

  “Sure you did, and it was a good thing.” Like after the time her supposedly devoted Rux pinned her to the wall of their bedroom and kneed her in the stomach repeatedly, shouting, you whore. Shawna had taken care of her, not judging, just being there and helping her decide what to do next. “What’s happened?”

  “Instead of cross-examining me maybe you should be paying more attention to your responsibilities.” Shawna put her hand up to her forehead. “Did you know Christian keeps a computer file on Nathalie?”

  “A file, like the CIA?”

  “How should I know? Barbara was snooping on his computer, which she shouldn’t have been, and he caught her looking into Nathalie’s file. He practically attacked her.”

  “Did he hurt her?” Antonia didn’t realize she’d spoken aloud until she saw her own alarm reflected in Shawna’s eyes. “Why didn’t you tell me this right away?”

  Shawna held up her hands and backed away. “He didn’t touch her.”

  “What exactly did he do, then?”

  “He yelled at her and threw a wooden spoon at the computer. Ant, I’m sorry I brought it up. Don’t jump to any conclusions.”

  “I don’t have to. He watched his father abuse his mother and now he’s growing up to be violent like him.”

  “All men aren’t like that.”

  “Christian gets intense over women and he has a hair-trigger temper—that’s not a safe combination. And he turned on Barbara.”

  “She provoked him.”

  “Now you’re blaming the woman.”

  “He didn’t hurt her. Promise me you won’t say anything.”

  “I can’t just let this go. He’s my responsibility.”

  Shawna said, “He’ll never trust me if he thinks I ratted him out. All I’m saying is, keep an eye on him.”

  Nuts, Antonia thought. She’s right. I can’t officially know about this. “Nathalie’s leading him on—why, for power, for ego, I don’t know, but I have to stop her.”

  “The Nathalies of this world don’t count.” Shawna searched around for her water glass and drained it.

  Dear God, Antonia mentally pleaded, please make Nathalie go back to New York, and take Roland with her while you’re at it.

  She wasn’t seriously praying. She’d stopped going to church years ago and didn’t really believe.

  CHAPTER 13

  What’s in a Name?

  MORROW HAD JUST CRACKED OPEN a Bud and was scanning the channels on his TV to see if the Hoyas were playing anywhere when the phone rang.

  Ruiz wasted no long-distance charges on hola, como estas. “I have sent you some biographical information along with a photograph and a mobile telephone number for Sanchez. You owe me for the DHL.”

  Morrow said, “Thanks,” expecting Ruiz to hang up, but he didn’t.

  “There is something more.” Ruiz coughed into the phone. “I spoke to some people. Unofficially, you understand.”

  Morrow set his untouched beer back down on the coffee table. “Go on.”

  “What do you know of the Montoneros?”

  For a second, Morrow, his head still wrapped around basketball, thought Ruiz was talking about a sports team. “Nothing. What or who are they?”

  “Idealists. Guerillas. Revolutionaries. Students, mostly from middle-class backgrounds, who identified with the populist ideals of Perónism.”

  “As in Juan and Eva Perón? Power to the people?”

  “Si. They were active in the seventies and early eighties.”

  “What’s the connection?”

  “You remember I told you how Perón’s policies ruined the Sanchez family?”

  Morrow had no idea where Ruiz was heading, but he wouldn’t be going into ancient history if it didn’t have some bearing on the Rothenberg case. “You said they lost their ranches and vineyards.”

  “Perón believed in land expropriation without compensation. So did the Montoneros. They were anti-aristocracy. My sources confirm Sanchez was a Montonero.”

  “You’re telling me Sanchez went against everything his family stood for.”

  “Si.”

  “So either he was an idealist or he hated his family.”

  “Those things are not mutually exclusive,” Ruiz said, and Morrow caught the cynical humor in his tone. “Here is where it gets more complicated. Perón originally supported the Montoneros while he was in exile. But the left and right wing factions within his own party were fighting, and the Montoneros moved too far to the left for his comfort, and after he returned to Argentina in 1974 he publicly disavowed them. So the Montoneros escalated their activities in response.”

  “Demonstrations?”

  “Abductions, bank robberies, assassinations.” Ruiz made it sound like it was all in a day’s work.

  “Something like our Mafia.”

  “Closer to the IRA. These men kidnapped and executed the former president of Argentina.”

  “Whoa, Bessie.” Morrow reached for his notebook. “You’re telling me Sanchez was part of all that?”

  “It would depend on when he associated with them. He might only have been a sympathizer. Nobody will talk openly, you understand. Most of the Montonero leaders were executed by the Triple A. Perón’s death squad.” Ruiz coughed again. “Perón never openly supported them but it is believed he sanctioned their acts.”

  Morrow stopped jotting notes. “Wait. If Sanchez was a Montonero, and the Montoneros were taken out by Perón’s Triple A, how come he’s still walking around?”

  “Eso. That is the question, exactly. It depends on where his true allegiances lay.”

  “You’re saying he could have been playing on either side.”

  “Or both. It would have been the same thing at one point. After Perón died the military junta eventually overthrew what remained of his government and started the Dirty War. After the coup any association with the Montoneros, because of their early support of Perónism, would be dangerous. The Right would—what word am I looking for—they would peg him. And they would disappear him.”

  “Once a Montonero always a Montonero?”

  “Si. Exactly.”

  “So Eduardo Sanchez is either a populist idealist or a violent revolutionary. But which? And how did he stay alive?”

  There was a moment of silence. Ruiz coughed again. “There is another mystery, as well. Sanchez was married to a journalist named Graciela Pellegrini. In 1976 she became a desaparecida.”

  “What’s that?”

  “A disappeared person. During the Dirty War the military junta kidnapped, tortured, and ‘disappeared’ thirty thousand people.”

  “She died?”

  “Almost certainly.”

  “Why go after her? Did she write something she shouldn’t have?”

  “As far as I could discover she did not, which makes her death a puzzle. Perhaps she was a Montenera—women fought, too. Or, she put him in danger. If he was a guerilla, or even a friend of the Montoneros, she could have exposed him if they ever arrested and tortured her. Sanchez left the country abruptly after she died. Some hint he may have turned her in.”

  Morrow read back through his notes, trying to make sense of them. “So let me get this straight. Sanchez betrays his family’s aristocratic landholding values by joining the Montoneros, he may or may not have committed violent crimes for their cause, he may or may not have taken Perón’s side when Perón turned against the Montoneros he—the dictator I mean, not Sanchez—helped to create, he’s still walking around untouched even though the other Montoneros he served with have been hunted down and exterminated, and to top it all off, he may or may not have had his own wife knocked off.” Morrow threw down his pen. “There’s no w
ay to establish any of this.”

  “No importa.”

  Ruiz was right. It didn’t matter. Eduardo Sanchez was dangerous any way you sliced it.

  CHAPTER 14

  Survival of the Fittest

  BOBBY LOOKED FORWARD to tango night at Sanctuary.

  He usually made it a point to arrive at 9:00 p.m. when the nightclub opened but he’d been delayed. Sanctuary was already starting to fill; he was having trouble picking out people he knew, even wearing his glasses. The nightclub held one hundred dancers at full capacity, of which fifty would be women, statistically speaking. A reasonable percentage might consent to dance with him, even though he still bumped into things. His batting average was almost as good as Babe Ruth’s.

  Café tables covered with white cloths, and lit by candles housed in citronella containers, lined the perimeter three deep. He needed to be at one bordering the dance floor. Otherwise, he’d almost certainly catch a tablecloth and knock over a candle. If only he could find—

  “Bobby! Bob-eeee!”

  He peered towards the bar and was surprised and pleased to find Barbara flagging him down. Sitting on a high wooden stool under the plastic thatched roof of the bar, neon Corona sign winking behind her, she looked like an advertisement for a Caribbean honeymoon. The black lace outfit with the skinny straps that showed off her clavicles barely qualified as a dress. She also wore a pair of sandals with lethally high heels. He hoped she’d be able to stay upright in them, especially once she started drinking. He wasn’t a very stable lead in the best of circumstances.

  She shouted over the music, “Want your usual?”

  He nodded emphatically and pantomimed that he would get them a table. The ones next to the floor were filled but he found one on an aisle which was almost as good.

  A few moments later Barbara worked her way to him, evening bag pinned under one arm, half-empty champagne glass in one hand, and his Schweppes Tonic in the other. “When are you ever going to order a real drink, for God’s sakes?” she said, offering her cheek for him to kiss. “They kill malaria with this.”

  Bobby gave her a tentative peck. Her skin felt like rose petals and smelled of some spicy ingredient. Patchouli, he hazarded.

  “Never mind,” she said, “I know, you think alcohol will throw you off balance.”

  For one heady moment he considered trying to turn her comment into an Argentine piropo. You’re sufficient intoxication for me. The words didn’t come—remarkably, considering his skill as a lecturer—but this wasn’t his subject—then it was too late. Barbara seated herself, the opportunity passed, and he reminded himself of their age difference. He ventured a safer compliment. “That’s a nice dress.”

  Barbara gave him an impish look. “Actually it’s a slip.”

  “Really?”

  “Are you shocked?”

  Bobby considered her question. “I suppose dancing in one’s underclothes is very practical. Wicks away the perspiration.”

  She leaned closer and spoke again, her breath tickling his ear. “I was just kidding, it’s not a slip. But I’m glad you like it.”

  “Ah-hem.” Bobby didn’t know what else to say so he looked around the room. He was still getting used to the new decorations. The proprietor had painted the walls with scenes of toucans and other exotic birds in tropical habitat, reminiscent of illustrated plates from his geologic texts. Earth, in the Cretaceous Period. The dance floor, unfortunately, hadn’t evolved. His nemesis, the support post in the middle of the room, was still very much in evidence, poorly camouflaged by a plastic palm tree.

  There are hierarchies in nature, he thought, eyeing one of the toucans. Why not here? It’s all about survival of the fittest. I’m just going to become one of the fittest. Fitter. Barbara and Antonia will dance with me at least. Too bad Shawna’s out of town.

  Barbara jogged her foot, rattling the chair in front of her.

  He held out his hand. “Care to dance?”

  “Not yet, I want to watch for a while.”

  That was unusual. Normally Barbara wanted to dance every set. He wondered what she had up her sleeve, so to speak.

  He sighted Christian at a table with some of the members of their tango class. Antonia must be not far away. Bobby scanned the room and found her dancing with a distinguished older man. Every move he made was crisp and compact. Bobby didn’t recognize the song. A vals? He counted to make sure. But just when he thought he had the beat the violins died down and the piano took up, breaking his concentration. Once the singer came on the thread became clearer. One-two-three-one-two-three-one-two-three. Yes, a waltz.

  The older man cradled Antonia in his arms. As he pivoted Antonia danced around him, stepping side, back, side, forward. Ya-YUM-pum-pum. A molinete.

  As Antonia’s partner led her to the cross she traced one sweet and ethereal grace note with her toe. They seemed unaware of anyone but each other.

  What would it be like to feel such a totally intimate connection, of giving oneself up entirely to the music and one’s partner? Not thinking, but feeling? Dancing “in the body,” as Antonia would say. She had once told him she could sense him counting the music in his head, and it was true. She’d advised him to practice without his glasses so he could focus on the music and feel what was happening with his partner. She assured him, if he dedicated himself, he would someday experience the dance the way he was meant to.

  Meanwhile he had to be content to dance vicariously. He continued to observe the older man. One-two-three, one-two-three. One. One. One. Pause. Pause. Pause. What would it be like to dance like that and not have to concentrate on navigation, or leading, or stepping on the beat, or not stepping on his partner? Bobby sighed. Barbara stirred next to him.

  The vals ended a few moments later and the unseen DJ put on an Elvis song for the cortina: “You Ain’t Nothing but a Hound Dog.” Antonia’s partner escorted her to her seat.

  Barbara suddenly sat bolt upright.

  Roland and Nathalie LeFebre had just claimed the “reserved” table a few feet away. Roland wore a suit. Nathalie matched him for elegance in a short silver, cobwebby frock. Bobby was beginning to feel outclassed by all the glamour.

  Sanctuary had nearly reached capacity. A new tanda began. Primeval, pulsing, survival-of-the-fittest music.

  “Pugliese,” Barbara hissed, straining forward in her chair.

  Roland led Nathalie to the floor. It was the first time Bobby had seen them together outside of class. He watched Roland take Nathalie in his arms and start the dance unconventionally, with a voleo. Nathalie twisted in his arms, the torque of her body causing her to swing her foot in a semi-circle behind her. It was a dramatic and dangerous move on a crowded floor. The follower would be almost certain to kick someone. Fortunately, Roland had made sure no one was behind Nathalie. The music called for abrupt changes of direction and the couple executed their steps with insolent precision. Nothing like the sweet, intimate dance he’d just seen from Antonia and her partner. This was a raw power struggle.

  The song ended and the second song in the tanda began, the violins acting like a defibrillator on his heart. Barbara nudged him, indicating she wanted to dance. Pugliese was way over his head but he didn’t want to miss his opportunity. He offered his hand to Barbara and led her to the floor.

  The first part of the song passed successfully. He could hear the beat pushing him. Dah-dah daaaaah ... No, he’d lost it again. The violins smashed and crashed. No major collisions yet but as he circled the floor he knew the palm tree called to him as surely as the Sirens lured ancient sailing vessels to the treacherous rocks. He eyed the support post warily, determined to navigate safely around it. Christian was just ahead of him in the line of dance, leading a woman he didn’t recognize.

  They arrived at a congested area on the floor and Bobby watched the couples ahead of him pile up in the queue, waiting for the people ahead of them to continue along the line of dance. Fortunately the song had reached a tender section and the piano had taken over so d
ecelerating didn’t seem out of place. In his peripheral vision he saw Roland draw up beside him with Nathalie in his arms, evidently intending to overtake. Passing was considered rude but Bobby knew he was, metaphorically, driving with his blinkers on.

  “You are the lodestar I steer by, dear Nathalie,” Bobby overheard Roland intone in a mock serious voice as he deftly led Nathalie around the pileup. “How’s that for romance?”

  Bobby felt Barbara turn to stone in his arms. Even more disconcertingly, Christian, immediately ahead of him, stopped dead. Bobby shifted his weight from side to side, waiting for Christian to move. Barbara squirmed. Was he holding her too tight? Barbara turned her head and Bobby got the sense she’d opened her eyes to see where they were going. She never trusted him to steer clear of obstacles.

  Christian finally led his partner to the center of the dance floor, the median strip of the tango highway. All clear. Bobby pressed forward and fell in directly behind Roland and Nathalie.

  The violins were back, slow and clear. Good. He could risk something besides a simple walk. A backward ocho. He changed from parallel to cross feet and led Barbara into the step. She was supposed to reach back and to her left with her right foot to trace the beginnings of a figure eight on the ground. But the music suddenly turned insistent again and Barbara, misinterpreting his lead as a voleo, promptly snapped her foot in the air and Nathalie emitted a shrill cry.

  Bobby peered over Barbara’s shoulder to see Nathalie inspecting the back of her right leg. “Sorry, sorry,” he said. “Nathalie, entirely my fault. Are you hurt?” He didn’t know what he’d done, exactly. He thought he’d left plenty of space but any mishaps were, by definition, the leader’s fault.

  “Look at this.” Nathalie pointed to her calf but Bobby couldn’t see anything wrong with it. “You just spiked my leg.”

  Barbara twisted in his arms and, seeing Nathalie, said, “Oh, did I, I didn’t realize you were there,” in an unnaturally high voice.

  “Well, you shouldn’t wear Comme Il Faut shoes if you don’t know how to dance in them.”