Dead on the Dance Floor

by Heather Graham

  Dixon wasn’t there that night, but Bobby, Giselle and Doug were sitting with Jake Dilessio. Jake greeted him with a wave, drawing out a chair as Quinn approached. At another table, Quinn saw some of the guys he knew who were with narcotics. Waves and casual greetings went around as Quinn sat.

  “So, what do you think?” Doug asked. “She looked good, didn’t she? Lara, I mean. Even dead. Still beautiful, huh?”

  “Yeah, she looked good,” Quinn said. His brother had obviously had a few. He looked morose. Okay, so they’d come from a wake. But since Quinn was certain that not even Doug’s best friend Bobby knew he’d been sleeping with the deceased, it wasn’t like Doug to give himself away like this.

  “You’ve been fraternizing, huh?” Bobby teasingly asked Quinn.

  He shrugged. “Not with any intent on the part of Miss Mackay. I’d told her I’d give her a lift, that’s all.”

  “She doesn’t know you’re a P.I., huh?” Bobby said.

  “It’s easier to ask questions when people aren’t instantly suspicious and defensive,” he said.

  “Don’t worry—I don’t intend to mention it,” Bobby assured him.

  “It’s an interesting crowd, isn’t it?” Giselle said, smiling. “And it’s very strange. You go into the studio, and they’re all as friendly as can be. But then, when they come down and dance and have drinks at Suede, you realize that you don’t really know any of them. You know, like what they do with their spare time, what makes them tick.”

  “They don’t have spare time,” Bobby said. “They dance. The competitors, anyway.” He grinned. “You should have been at the championships, Quinn. They change in and out of those outfits in seconds flat. They have to be perfect. There’re hairspray cans all over the place. Different shoes, different jewelry. They gush all over each other. Some of them act like they’re Gods, and when you listen to them talk, it’s as if you walked into a sitcom. Some of them are actually warm and cuddly, as well,” he admitted.

  “A lot of them are too warm and cuddly.” Giselle laughed. “A couple of the gentlemen were a little too impressed with Bobby—if you get my drift.”

  “If you’re talking about sexual orientation,” Jake said, leaning forward, half teasing, half serious, “some of the best cops I know are gay.”

  “I guess,” Bobby agreed.

  “What are you—homophobic?” Giselle accused.

  “Hey! You brought it up.”

  “Yes, but I’m allowed to. Several of my best friends are of a different persuasion.”

  “Hey, most of your best friends are my best friends!” Bobby said.

  “Trouble in newlywed paradise,” Doug moaned. “I gotta take a leak. Stop them if they start to get too crazy, huh?” He rose and walked off, wobbling a little.

  “Don’t let him drive home,” Jake warned Quinn.

  “Bobby, he ought to sleep on the boat,” Quinn said.

  Bobby nodded. “Yeah, I know. He’s been kind of weird tonight. A wake isn’t any fun, I know, but he’s really taking Lara’s death to heart. What do you think, Quinn?”

  “I haven’t had enough time to come to any conclusions,” Quinn said. “As far as the actual death went, the M.E. called it a she saw it.”

  “Hey, O’Casey!” Nick himself stepped out of the bar, bearing the house phone. “Call for you.”

  “Thanks, Nick.”

  “Sure thing. Make sure you bring it back in. It’ll be the fourth phone I’ve lost in three months, if you forget,” Nick said. “Watch him for me, Jake, huh?”

  “Absolutely,” Jake promised.

  Quinn glared at Jake, shaking his head as he took the receiver. “O’Casey here.”

  “Hi. I’m sorry to bother you. I had this number in your file, and I accessed it from home. I shouldn’t be doing this, calling you like this, taking advantage, but…”

  “Shannon?” Quinn said.

  “Yes, I’m sorry. I feel like an idiot, but I think there was someone out in my yard. Hanging around the house. I thought maybe you’d know someone who could take a cruise by the house and just look around a little. Or should I just try getting hold of the beach police? You’re a cop. What do you think?”

  “Shannon, this isn’t Doug. It’s Quinn.”

  “Quinn?” Her voice hardened suddenly. “Oh, so you hang around Nick’s, too. I thought you weren’t a cop?”

  “I’m not. They don’t require you to be a cop to serve you here. It’s a fun place. Have you ever been? No, of course not. I forgot—you don’t have a life.”

  “Funny. Look, never mind. I’m sorry I bothered you. I just thought Doug might have a friend on duty, or…never mind.”

  Her voice was tight, and she was obviously defensive. He instantly knew what she was thinking. He had just been at her house, just checked it out thoroughly. She was surely thinking that he must think her the most paranoid whiner in the world.

  “What happened?” he demanded.

  “Nothing.”

  “So what freaked you out?”

  “I…” She hesitated. He thought for a minute that she was going to hang up. He heard a long sigh. “After you left, there was a noise. As if someone had been leaning against the house, listening or something, then ran across the yard. I opened the door—”

  “You what?”

  “I opened the door.”

  “Why on earth would you do that?”

  “To convince myself there was no one there,” she snapped back.

  “And?”

  “Well, it’s dark out, you know.”

  “Yes, but…?”

  “I think someone had been there. There was someone moving down the street. Away from the house. Hunched over, in shadow. It’s perfectly possible it was just someone walking down the street. And we do have stray cats around here, and it’s likely if I’m hearing things, it’s one of them. Look, I’m sorry I called. It’s just my imagination, I’m certain. A wake tonight, a funeral tomorrow…sorry, really. I’m going to hang up now.”

  “Don’t go to sleep. I’m on my way out.”

  “No! Don’t be ridiculous. It’s all right. Really. Don’t come back out here.”

  “I’m on my way,” he said, hanging up.

  He hit the button to end the call. The three others at the table were staring at him.

  “Shannon Mackay. A case of nerves, probably. But I’m going to drive back out. Check things around her place.” He set the phone down as he rose. “Bobby, get Doug to sleep on the boat, all right? Jake—”

  “I’ll see that the phone is returned to the bar,” Jake said dryly. “Call if you need anything.”

  “You bet.”

  Quinn left them and hurried back to his car.

  Shannon paced her living room, swearing to herself, feeling on the one hand like an absolute idiot and then, on the other, wondering how long it would take for Quinn to drive back out to her place.

  Why had she opened the door? To assure herself, naturally. She wasn’t afraid of the dark—at least, she’d never been afraid of the dark before. She came home late every night of her life, except for Saturdays and Sundays. They were only open mornings on Saturdays, and Sunday the studio was closed. But Monday through Friday, it was usually nearly eleven when she reached her house. She never thought twice about parking her car, hopping out and walking to her door. Sometimes her neighbors were around, walking their dogs in their robes just before bed, throwing out their garbage or recycling, or taking a breather to look at the night sky. It was a friendly area. She had never felt the least threatened before.

  With a groan, she sat on the sofa, running her fingers through her hair. This was ridiculous. Lara had died right after a waiter had said to Shannon herself, “You’re next.”

  And since then…

  She had once been sane, confident and secure. Life had taken her through a few ups and downs, but she was mature and in charge. She knew she excelled at her chosen profession; she enjoyed the people she worked with; she was meant to take over the reins o
f the studio. Life was good.

  Had been good, even if a little empty.

  But then Lara had died.

  No, that was just it. She didn’t believe that for a minute. Lara hadn’t just died. And those words…You’re next. So now…

  So now, was it ridiculous to think she was being stalked?

  She winced, thinking about her conversation with Jane. Had she let too many people know that, no matter what conclusion the police and the M.E. had come to, she wasn’t convinced Lara had brought about her own demise?

  There was a noise in the front again. She jumped off the sofa, her heart thundering. She forced herself to walk to the door and stare out the peephole.

  She smiled, leaning against the door, actually laughing out loud. Harry—her next-door neighbor’s golden retriever—was marking one of the two small palm trees she had recently planted at the front of the walk.

  But even as she laughed at herself, a thud against the door brought a scream to her lips.

  “Shannon?”

  “Idiot, you are losing your mind,” she whispered to herself, hearing Quinn O’Casey’s voice.

  “Yes. Hi,” she said, unlocking the door and opening it.

  “What happened?” he asked sharply. “I heard you scream.”

  “You knocked,” she said ruefully.

  “You screamed because I knocked?” he said.

  She lowered her head. He must really think she was an idiot.

  “Never mind, long story. Hey, you must be sorry Doug bought you those lessons, huh? I swear to you, most dancers are sane.”

  “I’m here, think you might want to invite me in?”

  “Sure, sorry.”

  He stepped in. “Might as well hear a long story.”

  “Actually, it’s not that long.”

  “Tell me.”

  She sighed, suddenly almost as unnerved having him there as she had been when she’d been alone. But for a different reason. Despite the fact that she was wearing a floor-length Victorian nightgown, she felt less dressed than she might have in a bikini. The night was too quiet. He was too close, and the bit of world between them seemed far too intimate.

  “It was the dog.” She laughed. “I’d better start at the beginning. I guess it’s just tonight. The wake and all. It’s been a wretched week. Lara wasn’t my best friend or anything, but I have known her forever, and her death really was a tragedy. Anyway, I thought I heard something again, so I looked out, and I was just laughing at myself because what I had heard was Harry, the neighbor’s dog.”

  “Big shaggy golden retriever?”

  “That’s him.”

  “Anyway, I’d leaned against the door, feeling like an idiot for going into a panic, and then you knocked. You startled me. I screamed. There’s absolutely nothing wrong, and I am truly an idiot for having made you come back out here. It’s late, you were with friends. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

  “It’s all right. I’m wide-awake. I’ll go take a cruise around the house.”

  “Thanks. Hey, do you want more coffee? Wait, not a good idea—we’d both be up all night. How about tea? Iced tea? Hot tea?”

  He hesitated, looking at her.

  “Have you got any microwave popcorn?”

  She arched a brow. “I think so.”

  “Have you got a DVD player?”

  “Yes.”

  “Got a movie you’ve been wanting to see?”

  “Actually, I have dozens of movies. I keep buying them and never watching them.”

  “Throw in some popcorn, make it iced tea and pick a movie. I’ll be back.” He started to step back out the door, then popped his head back in. “I guess this would definitely be considered fraternization, huh?”

  “I’m afraid so,” she agreed.

  “I could sit on one side of the room, and you could sit on the other. But then again, I’m just temporary, not really a student.”

  “Yes, you are. You’re taking lessons.”

  “I’m still so bad surely it can’t count.”

  She laughed. “You’re not that bad, and it does count, but I don’t intend to tell, and I hope you don’t, either. If you’re sure you don’t mind being a baby-sitter for a few hours.”

  “Dancer-sitter,” he said with a shrug. “And since you probably won’t have any toes left after me, I’m sure I can afford the hours.”

  She hated herself for the thrill of absolute happiness she felt.

  Quinn woke, aware of voices on the television and daylight filtering in through the windows in the back. It was a gentle awakening. He didn’t move at first, simply opened his eyes.

  In a few hours, he would be aching all over. He’d fallen asleep in a sitting position, his head twisted downward at an angle. Shannon was next to him, her head on his lap, her knees tucked to her chest, her arms encircling a throw pillow. Tendrils of golden hair were curled over his trousers, and the warmth of her weight against him was both captivating and arousing. Beyond anything, though, the feel of her against him stirred a sudden sense of memory, of nostalgia. He found himself remaining there, thinking of a time when a wealth of both passion and affection had been so easily his, and he had barely noticed, his mind so consumed with his job. And even when it had all slipped away, he hadn’t really noticed, because somewhere inside, he had become deadened. And in the weeks and months that had followed, he hadn’t wanted anything more than a brief encounter with the gentler sex, moments of human contact and nothing more. The numbness had remained. He hadn’t known how to shake it. He’d been walking through life by rote, wondering where he had lost his senses of humanity and need, and his ability to have fun. Then Nell Durken had been found dead. And the numbness had been pierced with fury and impotence and a need to question every facet of life.

  And then had come Shannon Mackay.

  He was loath to move her. The softness of her hair against his flesh was like a breath of sweet, fresh air. The sight of her hand dangling over his knee. Fingers elegant, nails manicured, flesh so soft. Just the warmth of her, the weight of her, made him want to stay, drown in these sensations. It was this casual, intimate closeness that had been something so lost to him, something he hadn’t known he missed, needed or felt a longing for, somewhere deep within.

  She wouldn’t be happy, of course, that they had fallen asleep and essentially spent the night together. Definitely fraternization.

  At last he rose very carefully. As he moved, she stirred slightly, seeking the same comfort she had known against him. He quickly put a throw pillow beneath her head, settled her weight and backed away. The Victorian lace of the gown framed her chin, and her hair spilled everywhere, caught by the light, a splendid halo. The fabric was thin, hugging the length of her ultratoned form. She was supple, curvaceous, and swathed in that Victorian purity, she seemed somehow all the more sensual and vulnerable.

  It was time for him to get out.

  He walked away, found the jacket he had doffed, turned off the television and headed for the front, through the kitchen. He found a notepad and wrote a few quick lines. “Thanks for the popcorn, tea and movie. It’s light, and you’re locked in. Quinn.”

  He walked quietly to the front and exited, making sure he hit the button lock, since he didn’t have a key. He checked it twice, then headed for his car and drove away.

  The cemetery was even more crowded than the funeral home had been. The dance world had come in high numbers: Lara’s students, friends, associates and lovers all came to say their final goodbyes. And once again, there were reporters and news cameras and scores of the curious.

  Shannon had a seat next to Gordon in the row of folding chairs arranged on the little piece of green carpet before the coffin. As the priest talked about life on earth and life in the sweet promise of eternity, she bowed her head but found her mind wandering. It seemed a terrible shame to her that so many people had come, because others with loved ones in this cemetery tended to the graves, and their tributes of beautiful flower bouquets had ended up strewn
across the landscape, kicked around by the unnoticing mob that had come to attend a “celebrity” funeral.

  Lara was going into a spot not far from the mausoleum, surrounded by majestic oaks. A large angel-framed stone nearby honored a family named Gonzalez, while an elegant marble crypt belonged to Antonio Alfredo Machiavelli, who had passed away in the late 1940s.

  Birds soared across an amazingly blue and beautiful sky, not touched by so much as a hint of a cloud. She was glad Gordon had planned the ceremony early. In a few hours it would be roasting, whether it was officially autumn or not. Somewhere not far away a bee buzzed. In the distance, she could hear the barking of a dog. A residential neighborhood surrounded most of the cemetery. Children played on the lawns nearby; cars impatiently moved at slower speed limits, and horns honked. Life went on, even on the outskirts of a cemetery—maybe more so on the outskirts of a cemetery.

  Someone touched her knee. She lifted her head. Ben Trudeau, grimly passing her a rose to toss onto the coffin. The service was over.

  She stood and walked to the grave site, then threw the rose in. Gordon took her elbow, and they walked away from the grave.

  “Mr. Henson! Miss Mackay!”

  Shannon turned with annoyance to see Ryan Hatfield, a reporter she particularly disliked from a local paper. He was tall and skinny and needed a life worse than she did. When he attended events, he liked to make fun of the amateurs and professionals. He’d once written a truly cruel comment on a less-than-slender couple who’d won an amateur trophy in waltz. She’d furiously—and pointlessly—tried to explain to him that people were judged on their steps and the quality of their dance, and that for amateurs, dance was fun, and it was also excellent exercise. As far as professionals went, according to him, they were all affected, ridiculous snobs who looked down their noses at anyone with a new twist to anything. In response, she’d pointed out the different categories of dance, even the subcategories. He’d printed her explanation and still made her sound like an affected witch, living in a make-believe world.

  “What do you want?” she asked sharply, before Gordon could speak.

  “Come on, just a few words,” Hatfield said.