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

by Lisa Fernow

  Morrow called out, “Ms. Muir. It’s just us.”

  Silence.

  Morrow quickened his pace, making straight for the bedroom. Eduardo followed and she followed Eduardo and they both nearly rammed into Morrow when he stopped abruptly at the entrance to Shawna’s bedroom. “Shit.”

  “What is it?” She pushed her way into the room.

  Shawna knelt on the floor, toppled face first into the seat of the same armchair where Nathalie had died. She’d changed into a Japanese yukata, its tranquil blue and white cotton violated by the blood still seeping through the fabric. A Japanese fan lay at her feet, looking curiously long, and Antonia realized she was looking at the switchblade, sticking impertinently out from the end of the handle.

  Morrow bent down and touched his fingers to her neck. “She’s gone. She turned the tessen on herself.”

  It took a second for her to realize what he’d said. “Tessen?”

  “Her Japanese fan.”

  “That’s what Christian was trying to tell me, in the hospital. He must have seen it on one of Shawna’s websites.”

  Morrow used his handkerchief to pick up a piece of notepaper from the floor. He opened it, read it, and refolded it carefully.

  Eduardo said, “The fan. I looked everywhere. Where did she hide it?”

  Morrow walked over to Shawna’s cabinet. One of the panels was open, revealing a tiny drawer about two inches wide and ten inches deep. “A hidden compartment.” He turned and Antonia saw the disappointment on his face. “I can understand Sanchez wanting to take matters into his own hands. But you? How long have you known? You could have trusted me.”

  “I didn’t really know, I just had a feeling,” she replied unhappily. “I wasn’t sure until I went into the house just now. And once I knew, I wanted to give her time.” She braced for his wrath.

  “Time? For what? To slit open her bowels?”

  “To choose her fate!”

  And she burst into tears.

  CHAPTER 52

  La Hora Cero

  Zero hour. “An hour of absolute end and absolute beginning.”

  —Ástor Piazzola

  ANTONIA HEARD NOTHING FROM MORROW in the month following Shawna’s death but then she didn’t really expect to. He’d made it abundantly clear he wanted nothing to do with her. But happily, Eduardo had returned to Atlanta, ostensibly to teach a series of master classes but in reality she knew it was to coax her back into tango; the one thing in her life that had always proven true.

  Sanctuary was less crowded than usual. Antonia sat alone at a table in the back, the drafty section near the door, discreetly stretching her Achilles tendons. The DJ played Piazzola’s “Milonga del Angel”, better suited to listening in her opinion. The song took place in melancholic and tender slow motion, perfect for tuning out the world.

  The Nuevo faction had taken over, having waited for the end of the evening for the floor to clear, to accommodate their rangy, acrobatic open style. She normally enjoyed seeing what they made of Piazzola’s classical and jazz-infused music but that night all she wanted to do was crawl into a hole.

  A few of her students still braved the floor. Christian, long since released from the hospital and seeming none the worse for his experience, was squiring one of the younger dancers. Bobby and Barbara were on a leisurely trajectory to collide with the couple ahead of them. She watched them pass behind the plastic palm tree that camouflaged the post. It had been repainted since her last visit and an extra coconut and some low-lying foliage had been added as an additional bumper.

  She expected to see Bobby turn towards his blind side and knock into the other couple, pushing them right into the palm tree. The violins and bandoneon would override all other sounds but in her head she imagined Bobby apologizing to the couple: sorry, sorry, my fault entirely. But Bobby and Barbara came out the other side without incident. A first.

  It had been a mistake to come. She bent down to unbuckle her high heels to change into flats. She felt a cold breeze on the back of her legs and a spit-polished, rubber-soled shoe stepped in her line of sight.

  Sam Morrow, of all the gin joints, she thought. What’s he doing here? He can’t possibly have come to arrest me for obstructing justice. Not after all this time. She tried not to think about how her foul mood had suddenly lifted at seeing him again.

  She looked up. Sorry, sorry. “Detective Morrow.”

  “Don’t mind if I do.” He pulled out a chair and sat down at her table without waiting for an invitation, acting as if they met at Sanctuary all the time. He maneuvered his chair around to her side of the table to face the dance floor.

  Morrow ordered an American coffee and a piece of carrot cake. He draped his right arm casually over the empty chair at the next table. He seemed superbly unconcerned at being the only person in the room in jeans. The man certainly had nerve.

  Morrow had come to watch respectable Atlanta citizens and former murder suspects dance to Argentine tango music, Antonia thought. That’s how he sees it, through the lens of his job.

  Because of the crush of tables they sat practically knee-to-knee. It was humiliating to sit in such forced intimacy considering all that had passed between them. She could feel the cold air that lingered on his body and it made her aware of how warm she felt.

  Sorry, sorry, my fault entirely.

  “Come to arrest me?” She tried to keep her tone light and unconcerned, like someone who’d never lied to the police.

  “I notice Roland isn’t here tonight,” Morrow said.

  “That’s because he’s got television stations camped out on his lawn.”

  “What?”

  It was gratifying to know something he didn’t. “Barbara gave an interview this morning, offering libelous details about his role in Nathalie’s murder. You know the sort of thing: wronging his loyal fiancée, getting a gold digger pregnant, seducing a young innocent girl—that would be her in case you don’t recognize the description—on the side. He’s afraid to leave the house.”

  Morrow gave her his slow-roasted grin and said, “I wonder who gave her that idea.”

  Antonia did her best not to preen. “Don’t look at me.”

  Morrow said, “He’s going to have a lot more people than that to avoid, I’m afraid. Looks like he may have engaged in a spot of money laundering for some Nazi descendants in Argentina.”

  “So I was right about him. Wow.”

  “Professor Glass was quite helpful. He confirmed a name—Klement. And he was able to authenticate one emerald as not being from Colombia as advertised. Guest was paying museum quality prices for average pieces and vice versa, depending on whether money was coming in or out.”

  “Like the drum table in the invoice?”

  Morrow nodded. “Looks like Miles Rothenberg found out and managed to funnel some of the money back to the pieces’ original owners through Argentina’s B’Nai B’rith. I was able to let Lauren Weiss Rothenberg know her former husband had made reparations. I also introduced her to Bobby Glass. What with his organization and her money I have high hopes for that collaboration.”

  Antonia settled contentedly back into her seat. It was the one bright spot in the whole affair to see Roland get his just deserts. Well, maybe not the only bright spot. “So you came to arrest Roland?”

  “Can’t. No proof. By the time we got the warrant to search his house he’d gotten rid of the drum table. Who’s to say it was real or fake.”

  Antonia was about to say something disparaging about the speed and efficiency of the legal process when she heard her name being called. She looked up to see Eduardo headed their way. He kissed her on the cheek before she could rise from her seat and greeted Morrow with a vigorous handshake.

  “I didn’t expect to see you still here,” Morrow said to Eduardo, looking pleased.

  “I just returned. My patients needed a vacation from me.” Eduardo leaned closer so he could hear above the music. “What brings you to Sanctuary?”

  “Unfinished bu
siness.” It was hard to tell in that light but Antonia could have sworn she saw Morrow blush.

  “Detective,” Eduardo said, “will you satisfy my curiosity? When did you first suspect Shawna?”

  Morrow said, “Antonia put me on the right track almost immediately, actually, whether she knew it or not.” He turned to her. “Remember how you described Shawna when she came into the dining room fresh from ‘discovering’ Nathalie? You said she reminded you of Medea. I wondered if you’d unconsciously associated her holding up the shawl with the scene where Medea holds up her children’s clothes—where she had just come from killing them.”

  “So you were listening.”

  Morrow shrugged. “Once I saw the autopsy results, showing the two wounds, I was fairly sure. No time for someone to strike twice on the dance floor. Your version of “Milonga de mis Amores” only runs two minutes and thirty-nine seconds and they were well into it before the collision happened. Shawna was in the bedroom with Nathalie the entire time, making her the most likely person to have dealt the second, lethal blow.”

  Antonia said, “Most likely? Oh, I see, she and Roland could have been in on it together. Or Roland could have done it while she was with him in the bedroom and she could have covered it up.”

  “That was my theory,” Eduardo said. “But she denied it.”

  Morrow continued. “Either way Shawna had to have been part of it. We had to find who struck the first blow, what weapon was used, and what happened to it.”

  “Hence, the reenactment,” she said.

  “Actually at the time I thought Nathalie had been killed on the dance floor.” Morrow continued. “Guest seemed the obvious person as he had Nathalie in his arms. But the run-through showed me that a left-handed woman, if she was a good dancer, could maneuver her partner to be in the right place to strike and just manage it.”

  Eduardo nodded. “None of us would question it if we saw a woman reach up like that.”

  “That’s true,” she said. “So after you saw the autopsy you set a trap to find the first knife.”

  “We knew it must still be in the house, probably in the bedroom. We hoped when we found the weapon it would lead to the guilty party.”

  “Because of who owned it?”

  “That, or trace evidence.” Morrow continued. Guest was a no show.” He directed his comments to Eduardo. “You couldn’t have killed Nathalie alone. And you didn’t know Shawna well enough to have conspired with her.”

  Antonia said, “You said you had a piece of unfinished business? Was that with me?”

  Morrow nodded. “There’s one last detail we’ve been unable to nail down. I was hoping you could help,” he said. “‘A mysterious whisper squeezes my heart.’ Any idea what that means?”

  “No,” she said, puzzled.

  “I was hoping it would mean something to you.”

  “I have no idea. Why do you want to know?”

  “It’s a line from Shawna’s suicide note.”

  Eduardo cleared his throat. “I recognize those words. They’re lyrics. The song goes on to say that the singer wants to die alone, without confession. She wants to make things right with the universe.”

  Antonia felt her eyes tear up.

  “Shawna was saying it was her responsibility, Antonia.” Eduardo said, quietly.

  She let me off the hook.

  It took a few moments for that to sink in.

  Antonia finally turned to Morrow. “If you suspected Shawna then why did you let me go into the house alone with her?”

  Morrow shrugged. “I had faith in you.”

  At first she thought he meant she could take care of herself but gradually a more devious thought began to force its way into her consciousness. “Hold on. Shawna didn’t have to move the fan that night. The police missed it in the search once, who’s to say they’d ever find it? She could have kept her cool and gotten rid of it when things died down. You had no case without it, did you?”

  Morrow stroked his chin. “You have a vivid imagination, Ms. Blakeley.”

  “You wanted me to go in to stir things up!”

  “Absolutely not,” he said, looking at her with his not so innocent baby-blue eyes.

  Holy Mierda, Antonia thought. Was Morrow winding me up the whole time, getting me to do his dirty work?

  “Mira, look at Christian. He’s safe now,” Eduardo said, probably hoping to forestall an argument. “Or perhaps not. Las pibas have been trying to catch his eye all evening.”

  She turned to look at the dance floor. Seeing Christian dancing a vals with one of the visiting students from Emory she felt a sense of well-being wash over her. “Guess that’s what happens when you survive a near-death experience. You become a minor celebrity.”

  “And look at Roberto. He and Barbara are well matched,” Eduardo said, looking very smug.

  Antonia watched the couple romp past. Bobby’s navigation had definitely improved, thanks to a few private sessions with Eduardo. All night she’d been thinking something was different about him and she finally realized what it was. Bobby had shaved his head. It looked strangely right.

  “Eduardo, did you talk to him?”

  “I may have had a few words with him. Life is very short. A man gets to a dangerous age …” Eduardo showed signs of launching into his favorite subject but then he stopped himself. “I think it’s time I got back out on the floor.” He caught the eye of one of the women who hadn’t yet been asked to dance and left the table, leaving Antonia alone with Morrow sitting in semi-awkward silence. Awkward at least on her part.

  She watched Christian chat with the woman from Emory as the cortina came on. They made no move to go back to the tables so Christian must have asked her to dance a second tanda.

  Maybe I should check on him, she thought.

  “La Cumparsita” came on, Pedro Laurenz’ tender and delicate version. The last song of the night.

  No. Christian was old enough to make his own choices.

  “Sam Morrow,” she said, “are you going to eat that carrot cake or not?”

  “I thought we might share.”

  Whoa, Bessie. She cut into the carrot cake that he’d bought for her. She passed the fork to him, offering him the first bite.

  TO MY READERS

  Thanks for checking out Dead on Her Feet.

  If you’d like to go to behind the scenes, find soundtracks from the story, learn more about the tango world, hear about events and future books, write to me, or simply lurk, I invite you to visit my website, www.lisafernow.com.

  And if you feel inclined, spread the word (shameless self-promotion, I know, but that’s the way the publishing world is today). Review the book on the website of your choice, recommend it, give it as a gift, light smoke signals, whatever.

  It really matters.

  Thanks!

  Lisa

  GLOSSARY OF TANGO TERMS

  abrazo. To embrace, used in greeting someone.

  amague. [from amagar]. To make a threatening move. In tango, a feint used before taking a step.

  arrastre. [from arrastrar]. To drag.

  arrepentida. A repented action. In tango, a check-step to stop advancing or change direction.

  cabeceo. A nod for a man to invite a woman to dance and for her to accept the invitation.

  calesita. Carousel. In tango, a move in which the man leans the woman against him and pivots her on one foot, often in a circular pattern.

  codigo. Code.

  cortina. Curtain. In tango, a short musical interlude used as a break between sets.

  milonga. One of the rhythms of tango. Also a tango event.

  milonguero/a (male/female). An older veteran tango dancer usually with a distinctive and expert dance.

  molinete. A turning step known in English as a grapevine.

  pista. The dance floor.

  sacada. A displacement.

  salida. Exit. In tango, an opening move.

  tanda. A set of songs.

  tanguero/a (male/female).
Tango dancer.

  traspie. To stumble or trip. In tango, to step on the same foot twice.

  vals. Waltz

  volcada [from volcar]. To spill over or capsize. In tango, a falling step.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  So many people helped with this book, and I am grateful to all for their contributions.

  Thanks to …

  The tango community, which is more welcoming and much less lethal than I portrayed it to be, and which will find much in this book to argue about, in a good way.

  Lynne Heitman, thriller writer and mentor, who critiqued every draft and still kept her sanity, as far as I know.

  The early readers and technical experts who gave feedback and kept me honest on story arc, character development, plot twists, tango, Argentina, police procedure, the legal system, and word choice: Laura Biagi, Ellen Bierman, Brad Boyer, Michael Bronfenbrenner, Michael Chamness, Peter Cooper, George Crane, Trudy Dubois, Barbara Durr, Elizabeth Evans, Alan Forde, Doug Grad, Robert Hauk, Elizabeth Kracht, Kendra MacLeod, Trish May, Kate Moore, Ace Petersen, Bill Petersen, Judy Rothenberg, Bruce Rothenberg, Katherine Schuitemaker, Erla Skuladottir, Ben Slivka, Lisa Wissner-Slivka, Maureen Stich, Ed Stith, Juliet Walters, Wyman Yip, and John Zobel.

  The Booktrope team and other artists who contributed their special talents to this project: Adam Bodendieck, Kate Burkett, Jesse James Freeman, Loretta Matson, Cathy Rodriguez, Katherine Sears, Cathy Shaw, Kenneth Shear and Cynthia White.

  Members of the writing and entertainment community who generously provided advice and support at key moments, whether or not they knew it: Rich Alaniz, Robert Dugoni, Sue Grafton, John Elefteriades, Peter Lewis, Janet Reid and Ann Rittenberg.

  And to my family, who doesn’t think it at all strange that I should want to write mysteries. Maybe it’s the fact that I once shaved my Barbie’s head and stuffed her hair down the chimney of my haunted house.

  Despite this help, as my dad once wrote in his PhD thesis, the mistakes are all mine. As in tango, after years of practice I am still just learning to walk.