A Tango Before Dying

by Anna Celeste Burke

  “Dancers don’t use that expression,” I told Jack.

  “Yes,” Max agreed. “They have a much more apt French word they use to ward off bad luck before the start of a performance. Although in this case, it pretty much sums up the circumstances in which we find ourselves.” I filled in Jack on what Max meant using the French word and translated the crass term into English for him.

  “Now that you mention it, I remember my daughter telling me something about that tradition—it goes way back to when the live animals they used had an accident on stage, right?”

  “I’m sure your daughter’s right,” I responded, mulling over the fact that no matter what expression was or wasn’t used, bad luck had struck again. As Jack made a quick left, I hung on. “How did his accident occur?”

  “No one knows for sure. Stacy said Kathleen found him at the bottom of a short flight of steps. She called 911 and then called Stacy. Dr. Vincent was standing around in the reception area, and Stacy asked him to check on the poor guy. She said Kevin was out cold by then.”

  “Was Dr. Vincent able to bring him around?” I asked.

  “Either he did, or the EMTs did. When Kevin came to, he asked them what had happened, so he doesn’t know or couldn’t remember.”

  “If he was knocked out, he must have a head injury as well as that broken leg,” Jack said.

  “Stacy said something about that, too. As soon as they’ve got him stable, they’ll move him from the stairwell where he was found, downstairs to an ambulance that’s waiting. Then, he’ll be transported to the nearest hospital.” Max shook his head. “Kevin’s lucky he’s not dead.”

  “You could be right about that,” I replied trying to rub away the goosebumps that had appeared on my arms. I didn’t want to say anything to set Max off, but an accident involving her would-be dance partner, so soon after Charlotte’s death, set my already jittery nerves on edge. I crossed Kevin Whitley’s name off the suspect list.

  When we drew closer to the complex where the gala was being held, the tunnel floor inclined. We soon arrived at a security gate. When the arm rose and let us pass through, we were in the lower level of a parking garage. Jack pulled in next to another golf cart, and we disembarked. A ramp led up from the floor we were on and we found ourselves at the entrance to the parking garage. We turned the corner and saw an ambulance still parked near the side doors leading into the center.

  The automatic doors slid open and Dr. Vincent stepped out of the building. One of the EMTs behind him spotted us and nodded. He and his partner, the same two men who’d been in Charlotte’s suite, wheeled Kevin on a stretcher. They took him to the back of the ambulance, and one of them opened the door. The call about Kevin’s mishap must have been placed soon after they left Charlotte’s hotel suite.

  Max stepped up to greet Dr. Vincent. By the look of his clenched jaw and furrowed brow, Max’s personal physician appeared to be even more stressed out now than he’d been when we last saw him.

  “How’s he doing?” Max asked.

  “Not great. He’s passed out again. I’m concerned he may have a serious injury from the blow to his head.”

  “Blow?” Jack asked. “Are you saying he suffered a head injury when he fell, or did someone hit him?”

  “I wish he could tell us that. Apparently, he doesn’t remember a thing. Given the location of the injury, my guess is he was hit from behind and then tumbled down the steps. I’ve already reported the incident to the police. I’m sure they’ll quiz him about what happened once he’s conscious and lucid enough to be questioned.”

  “When will that be?” I wondered aloud.

  “Probably not until tomorrow morning, if then.”

  “Are you riding along?” One of the EMTs asked as the other one pulled himself up into the driver’s seat.

  “Yes.” Dr. Vincent replied before speaking to us again.

  “I’ll catch up with you all later. Since Kathleen Fowler is the one who found him, she may be able to give you more details about his accident. I’m going to be tied up for a while, Max, so please don’t get too worked up over this.” With that, he hopped into the back of the ambulance, and the EMT slammed the door.

  “I guess Voltaire had it wrong, didn’t he?” the EMT asked as he bolted the door.

  “What?” I asked, clueless about what the heck he meant.

  “‘Let us read and let us dance; these two amusements will never do any harm to the world.’ Reading maybe, but apparently, not dance.” With that, our Voltaire-quoting EMT took off as the sirens blared. They had just pulled out onto the street when the doors to the building slid open again.

  “Wait!” Kathleen Fowler shouted as she sprang through the open doors.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “His ring,” she replied holding up a shiny band of white gold or platinum. “I found it near where he landed at the bottom of the steps.”

  “That’s too small to be a man’s ring,” I said. I pulled a tissue from my handbag and held it out for her to give it to me. I wished I had one of those little evidence bags that the forensic investigator was using in the hotel suite.

  I had no reason to worry. The detective I married had come prepared. I don’t know when or where he’d picked up latex gloves and an evidence bag, but Jack pulled both from a pocket of the dark jacket he wore over a tango vest and loose-fitting pants.

  “Did you find or remove anything else from that area?” Jack asked as he picked up the ring with a gloved hand and examined it before dropping it into the small bag.

  “No, not really. Should I?” Kathleen asked.

  “No! Not until the police have a chance to check it out, okay? In fact, let’s block off the area, so no one uses it until the police are done.”

  “Great! All we need is for our guests to be greeted by crime scene tape,” Kathleen snapped.

  “Is the stairwell where Kevin Whitley fell in a high-traffic area like that?”

  “The stairway is opposite the entrance to the ballroom where we’re holding the gala.” She glanced at Max as she said that and led us into the elevator that would take us to the ballroom. “I’m sure there’s some unobtrusive way to keep guests from using the stairs.”

  “If I can speak to our Security Associates, we’ll hang an ‘under renovation’ sign on it and direct them elsewhere,” I said.

  “Yes, I figured something like that would work. I just don’t have the authority to tell Security Associates what to do. I wish we could fix the evening’s program as easily as that. Stacy and Katrina are waiting for you, Max. Katrina could have stepped in for Charlotte, but with Kevin injured, now what?” Max mumbled something almost inaudible.

  “I know, I know. The show must go on. How, though, now that both members of our tango dancing couple are ‘indisposed?’ Katrina’s put out a call for help to Associates in the Entertainment Division, but even if we can rally them on such short notice—on a Friday night—they’d be lucky to get here in time to perform on schedule. At this point, she’d probably be grateful if we could locate a pair of amateurs. If they know how to tango, who cares if they’re professionals?”

  Max had grown quiet as we rode up on the elevator with Kathleen. I suddenly realized he was scanning me, head-to-toe. Then he examined Jack in the same way. When the elevator door opened, we stepped out into an expansive reception area. Two sets of double doors were wide open to a spectacular ballroom with a gleaming dance floor. Max the flatterer spoke.

  “With all the distractions, I haven’t had a chance to tell you how wonderful you look tonight, have I, Georgie?” Butter could have melted in his mouth at the warmth in his words. “You, too, Jack. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen a more handsome couple anywhere.” Jack arched an eyebrow as he shot a glance my way.

  “What’s he up to now?” He whispered as Max charged ahead of us into the ballroom with Kathleen trying to keep up. I had my suspicions, but I couldn’t bring myself to utter the word aloud that Max had left out of his last oh-so-complimentar
y sentence about what a handsome couple we were. Instead, I mouthed the word ‘tango’ as in handsome tango couple. Jack’s eyes widened. “Not us?” he whispered incredulously. I shrugged and raised one hand with my fingers crossed hoping I was wrong. The whole idea was ludicrous!

  The ballroom was aglow in lights from chandeliers above us and sconces on the walls. At the far end of the room, an orchestra was set up and played a waltz as a tech guy checked cords and mics. We followed Max to a door near the back on one side of the room. Lavishly decorated tables lined the outer edges of the room, leaving plenty of room on the dance floor for guests to join in once the evening’s tango demonstration had finished. Waiters dressed in blousy shirts, tango vests, and baggy pants were bustling around lighting votive candles, straightening floral arrangements, and setting silverware on the tables.

  I would have been wowed by the décor and excited about the evening if we weren’t about to visit our second crime scene of the day—third if I wanted to include Natalie Bucco’s lunchtime assault at Versailles Veranda. There might be a fourth if Max didn’t come to his senses and I had to do something drastic to knock that crazed gleam out of Max’s eyes. Could he possibly imagine that Jack and I could fill in for Madame Chantel and Kevin Whitley?

  “I’m willing to take my chances if you want to ditch, Jack. If ‘Mad’ Max asks us to do the tango demonstration, he’s going to fire me anyway because I’m going to tell him no! After a day like this one, I’m ready to retire, aren’t you?”

  “We’re in too deep to quit now, baby,” Jack replied using his hokey noir detective voice. “Whoever’s got it in for tonight’s dancers has got to be stopped.”

  “That’s another reason to nip Max’s madness in the bud. I don’t want to go around wearing a big bullseye if someone is killing dance-floor rivals and believes we’ve decided to enter the world of competitive dance.”

  “Did you say something?” Kathleen asked as her spikey heels clicked on the floor a step or two behind Max as he passed through the door.

  “Nothing important!” I replied as the door shut. Then I leaned in and continued my hushed conversation with Jack.

  “Once they see us dance, the murderous thug on the loose might just consider it a mercy killing.”

  “Aw, come on, we’re not that bad. You’re a sight to behold in that dress, and I look pretty good, too, don’t I?” My mouth fell open, hoping he wasn’t going to agree to go along with Max’s latest delusion. “Besides, you must have it all wrong.”

  When we passed through that door, I knew I was right. All eyes were upon us. Katrina Milan paced the floor as she eyed us.

  “It could work, Max,” she said, coming to a halt directly in front of us.

  “Of course, it can! It’s genius in fact!”

  “Look, Max, whatever you’re thinking, it has to stop, now!” I put my hands on my hips. “Jack and I have only been dancing the tango for a few months. No way are we going to get up on that dance floor in front of all those people and make a couple of fools out of ourselves.”

  “Georgie, would I ask you to do that? Please give me some credit!” Max harrumphed.

  “We’re going to turn the demonstration into an impromptu dance class, and we want you two to be the volunteers. Let us teach you a few steps, you monkey around a little, and then, go for it!”

  “In other words, they want to use us as ringers,” Jack said when Katrina ended her explanation.

  “Not ringers! Spark plugs—just to get the action going.” I was about to recommend he play the role of spark plug when he continued. “I remember how well you two danced at your Christmas wedding—spectacular! You had the rest of us out on the dance floor in no time at all!” Then Katrina offered us her take on the subject.

  “I prefer to think of you as the first two participants in one of those flash mob dance performances staged in a public square or a mall somewhere.” That didn’t sound better to me than the idea of being ‘ringers’ or ‘spark plugs.’ Nor was I convinced it was any way to get out of the PR mess they were in. There’d be a flash mob, all right, as unruly guests began throwing tiny meatballs and other finger foods at us.

  “That can’t be the only option here. You must have backup for this kind of a situation.” I folded my arms and tapped my toe as my consternation grew.

  “We did, sure. That plan was to cover the possibility that one of our celebrity dancers had a problem at the last minute—not both. Madame Chantel would have made any man she danced with look like a star if Kevin’s broken leg was our only problem. Or I could have stepped in and held my own as Kevin’s dance partner, even though I’m not a celebrity. Now what? We have no celebrities. Where are we going to get another one?”

  “Oh, come on, what kind of celebrity is Kevin Whitley?” I asked.

  “You’ve got to be kidding!” Kathleen exclaimed. “You don’t know his story about a YouTube video that went viral? Then he was invited to join Dancing with Celebs, and he won at age seventy-two!” I stood there not sure what to say since I was clearly out of the loop when it came to pop culture television heroes. I hadn’t seen or heard a word about it. Nor had Carol or anyone else mentioned it. Jack rescued me since my ignorance had left me speechless.

  “Sorry, Georgie and I were unaware of Kevin’s claim to fame. We understood he was Madame Chantel’s old dance partner, and their performance was a draw because it was a reunion of sorts.”

  “That’s true—they were a couple, on the dance floor and off for more than a decade which would have made their tango even more special,” Katrina commented.

  “By ‘special’ do you mean their reunion was more than a PR event?” I flashed on the image of that ring. I suppose it could have been offered to Charlotte as a symbol of friendship, although it sure looked like a wedding band to me. Had Kevin had it with him when he fell because he planned to give it to Charlotte tonight?

  “They seemed like old friends when they rehearsed this morning. You’ll have to ask them if there’s any more to it than that.” Katrina appeared to be annoyed. “Can we please get this settled? Tick-tock! Time is running out!”

  “Even if they’re not household names like Madame Chantel and Kevin Whitley, this hotel is filled with competitive dancers. Surely there’s another couple itching to get out on that dance floor for an extra fifteen minutes of fame?” I could tell Jack had more than one purpose in asking that question, recalling the earlier conversation we’d had in the car about understudies being willing to kill to steal the limelight.

  “Not without running the risk of getting into a jam with the organizers of the competition or having them sue us. You have no idea what hoops we had to jump through to set this up in the first place. Nope. Not going to happen!”

  “So, Georgie, what do you say?” Max’s wheedling tone had returned. “Katrina’s agreed to be the instructor, and she’s coaxed several Marvelous Marley World dancers to join us, so you won’t be out there on your own for long. Or so we hope.”

  “What Max means is that I put out the call twenty minutes ago for members of the cast to join us. We’re not sure who’s going to show up or when.”

  “That really is ‘flash mob’ style, see?” Kathleen asked. “If some of them show up in costume, it’ll be great fun!”

  “Fortunately, one of tonight’s waiters is also a Marvelous Marley World dancer, so I’ll have a partner to dance with me when I give the lesson.”

  “That’s perfect, Katrina! You two do it!” I held onto the fleeting hope that option gave us one last chance to escape what increasingly felt like a humiliating inevitability. Max must have thought so too because the worry on his face had been replaced by a serene smile.

  “You’re missing the point. We’re reconceptualizing the whole night as one of abandonment to dance—featuring amateurs, not pros. Come on, Georgie, where’s your joie de vivre?”

  “Give us a minute, will you?” Jack asked and took me aside.

  “Georgie, it sounds like what they want us to do w
ill all be over quicker than this conversation. We’ve still got a few minutes before this place is full of gala guests and I’d like to check out the spot where Kevin had his accident, wouldn’t you?”

  “Okay. I don’t understand why you’re so willing to let Max make fools out of us. You’re right. At least we’ll have time to visit another crime scene before that happens.” I couldn’t believe the words as they spilled out of my mouth. “That didn’t come out right, did it?”

  “I know exactly what you meant. Come on.” Jack tugged me toward the door leading to the ballroom. “We’re in! We’ll be back in twenty minutes.”

  “Kathleen,” I asked, “will you show us the way, please?”

  7 Creative Differences

  As Kathleen took us up one floor by elevator and then led us to the stairs where Kevin had been injured, I tried to concentrate. Nothing is more nerve-wracking to me than being asked to perform some task without adequate preparation. When I’d looked forward to tangoing with Jack, it had been as an inconspicuous couple in a crowd of inconspicuous couples, not as a sideshow. If Max was looking to create a distraction from the fact that Charlotte Chantel and Kevin Whitley had been scratched from tonight’s program, he’d surely succeed—at our expense.

  Why isn’t Jack more worried? I wondered. Then I flushed with embarrassment at my self-centeredness as Kathleen opened the door to the stairwell in which she’d discovered Kevin. Jack had bigger issues on his mind than a misstep or two on the dance floor. He spoke briefly to the Security Associate seated in a chair near the stairs. I asked him to put up a notice that the stairway was closed until further notice, on this floor and on the floors where the stairway led. He was on it before we could crowd into the open doorway and peer below.

  As we stood behind Kathleen, she pointed to a spot that was on the landing about six steps below us.

  “I don’t see loose carpet or any obvious reason he might have tripped and lost his footing. The lighting is good. He’s lucky the steps and landing are carpeted. That may explain why he survived the fall,” Jack said in a solemn tone. The carpeting on the landing had a large dark-colored stain that had to be blood. Kathleen looked away.