Dead on the Dance Floor

by Heather Graham

  She shook her head. “I don’t know anything. I wish I did.”

  “Maybe that’s not a very good wish.”

  “Why?”

  “Maybe people die because they do know something,” he said.

  She pulled her wrist free. “I’m sure I’ll be seeing you, Mr. O’Casey.”

  “Very soon. In a matter of hours.”

  She frowned.

  “Group class,” he reminded her pleasantly.

  She turned on her heels. Her footsteps clicked in a no-nonsense manner as she walked along the path to the parking lot.

  Rhianna was leading the beginners’ class. From her office, Shannon could hear her directions.

  “Slow, quick, quick, slow. Slow, quick, quick, slow…there you go, Mr. Suarez, look at that, Cuban motion already taking flight. Mr. O’Casey…think box. Just a box. Slow…quick, quick, slow. Think of the way we’ve been working, fox-trot, rumba. Two very different dances, one smooth, one rhythm, and yet we’re still talking box right now. There will always be two aspects involved. The step itself, and then the technique of the step. Belinda, good motion! Just because it’s slow, that doesn’t mean that it’s a stop. Eventually, each step flows into the other. A count doesn’t necessarily mean a foot movement but rather a body movement, and though each is distinct, it flows. Feel the music, Mr. O’Casey. Slow, quick, quick, slow…slow, quick, quick, slow.”

  Shannon stepped outside to watch. All the men—Ben, Justin and Sam—were engaged in private lessons at the moment. Jane didn’t have a private, so she was the one assisting Rhianna, who was trying to show the men the proper dance hold so they would one day, be able to lead properly.

  Tonight the newcomers group was small. Just the pretty little dressmaker who had started about two weeks ago, Quinn O’Casey and a construction worker, Tito Suarez, who was about to attend his daughter’s wedding.

  As she stepped out, she heard Mr. Suarez speaking in confusion. “I’m sorry, which of you is being the man?”

  “I’m the man right now,” Rhianna told him. “Just call me Reggie—that’s my name when I play the guy. Jane’s guy name is Jason. You’ll get used to it. Hey, you should see it when Justin Garcia does his Judy thing when Ben is leading. They’re great.”

  For a moment Shannon leaned against the wall, feeling a brief sense of strange relief. She didn’t think she’d heard real laughter in the studio since Lara had died. Tonight it seemed that they might be getting back to normal at last.

  Or maybe nothing would ever be normal again.

  She caught Quinn’s eyes across the room.

  You’re next.

  Why hadn’t she told him what the waiter had said to her? Because…it wasn’t proof of anything? It might be as silly and paranoid as jumping when a bush moved in her backyard.

  But maybe not.

  “Small class, huh?”

  She nearly jumped a mile. It was just Gordon, standing behind her, speaking softly and glumly.

  “Business will pick back up,” she said.

  “I hope so.”

  “There’s a large group waiting for the advanced class already,” she told him.

  “I guess you’re right. Have we had any cancellations for the Gator Gala?”

  “No, not one,” she told him.

  “Hey, Quinn got us the boat.”

  She spun around.

  Gordon nodded, pleased. “Casual buffet, trip out into Biscayne Bay—he even knew a great band to play for us, and the price is right. Be sure you make the announcement tonight, after advanced. We’re going out of Coconut Grove at eight. Everyone should meet at the dock around seven. Tell them that dress is Miami-casual-chic.”

  “And what the hell is that?” Shannon asked him.

  He shrugged. “It means they can wear whatever the hell they want.”

  He turned to head back for his office. Rhianna announced the end of the group class, and told her students to applaud their partners and themselves. Then Belinda started to chat with Tito. Quinn smiled casually and sauntered over to Jane and Rhianna.

  Shannon was amazed to hear her teeth grate as she wondered what investigative techniques he would be using with her staff.

  Quinn walked into Gordon’s office. “I hear there’s some kind of a meeting tonight for the Gator Gala people.”

  Gordon Henson leaned back in his chair, smiling. “Not a real meeting. Shannon has an advanced class tonight, so a lot of the participants will be here. She’s just going to give them a little advice, get them hyped, talk about outfits, shoes, hair—makeup. Your brother will probably stay, though he’s heard most of it before.”

  “Can beginners enter the Gator Gala?”

  “Of course.” Gordon brightened up, as if his eyes were on the prize. “You interested?”

  Hell, no! Quinn thought. But aloud he said, “Maybe. Would it be all right if I hung around for the meeting?”

  “Naturally. Hey, I know you feel you don’t have much of an aptitude for this, but believe me, most people are clumsy when they start out.”

  “Right.”

  “Your brother looked like a real clod,” Gordon said, maybe a little too honestly. “And look at him now.”

  “Well, I’ll hang around. And think about it.”

  “You’d have a lot of work to do.” A lot of work—a lot of classes. More income for the studio. It was the American way, it was what they did.

  “I’ll give it some thought,” Quinn assured him. “Do a little watching.”

  “Go right ahead. Do that.”

  Quinn walked back out to where the advanced class was being taught. It was Shannon’s class, and they were working on rumba technique. He was amazed to see the individual motions that actually took place in one little step. He was amazed to watch her do it, as well. The twist of the hips, the bend of the knee, how everything combined to become so incredibly fluid that no one watching would realize how complex the motions really were.

  She was a good teacher. And she used Doug to demonstrate a lot of what she was saying.

  He’d never seen his brother look so damned good.

  A twinge of jealousy swept through him and he firmly stomped it down. They were dancing, just dancing. But when dancing looked like that…

  Motive…

  Jealousy was a major motive for murder. Jealousy, unrequited love, hatred spawned by envy.

  She worked with each member of the class. He knew a few of them. The doctors Richard and Mina Long. Gabriel Lopez, owner of the club. His own brother. There was also a much older man, who performed the moves with applaudable finesse. Two other couples, a beautiful younger woman, and a middle-aged woman.

  Bobby and Giselle showed up during the class. They stood near Quinn, watching.

  “Those are the crème de la crème of the students,” Bobby told him. “Katarina and her husband…she’s really good. I don’t think she’s as much in love with dance as she is with showing off her outfits, but hey, whatever works. Richard Long is really good, better than his wife, but they get along amazingly well, anyway. You should see some of the fights between husbands and wives around here—wife accusing husband of not leading right, husband accusing wife of not being able to follow.”

  “Not us, of course,” Giselle said, grinning.

  Bobby grimaced. “We don’t fight that bad, do we?”

  “Let’s hope not, we’re still newlyweds.”

  “It looks as if the two of you get along all right,” Quinn told them.

  “Better than the professionals,” Giselle said. “We were here one day when Lara Trudeau and Jim Burke were working. Shannon was coaching. Lara was going on and on about Jim missing the beat, and Shannon told her that Jim was right, she had to actually let him lead.”

  “And Lara Trudeau just took that?” Quinn said, surprised. From what he had heard about the woman, she wouldn’t accept anyone else giving her instruction.

  “Oh, no. She said something to Shannon, and Shannon told her that she didn’t waste her time with
people who didn’t think they needed any improvement. She walked off and Lara and Jim got into a big fight. Then they realized that some of the students had arrived and were watching, so Lara went to get Shannon, and everyone started over as if nothing had happened at all.”

  “Jim must have had some major patience,” Quinn said.

  “He wanted to compete—she was the best, I guess,” Bobby said with a shrug. “I haven’t seen him around much, not since she died.”

  “Was he here a lot?”

  “Sure. He knew Shannon could teach. He would come for coaching sessions without Lara.”

  “The woman was a bitch,” Giselle whispered.

  The advanced class was over, and Gordon had come out to talk to them about the Gator Gala. Shannon, seeing him in the back of the group, arched her brows.

  “I told Gordon I was thinking about entering,” he said, not caring that everyone in the room could hear, in response to her unspoken question.

  “Oh,” she murmured.

  “As a beginner. He said there’s a beginner category,” Quinn told her. He almost laughed aloud at himself. He had sounded defensive. Yes, he thought. There’s a category for people who can’t dance. It’s the two-left-feet award.

  “Hey, that’s great,” Sam Railey said. “Our newest student is entering.”

  The room applauded for him. To his amazement, he felt the dark heat of a flush creeping over his face.

  “Maybe,” he said.

  “Some of you have competed before, some of you haven’t,” Shannon said, perching on one of the small tables against the wall. “Some things may sound silly, and some may sound fun. I’ve actually acquired students through the years just because they like the dance outfits, so…Okay, beginners—something dressy is all you really want. And students entering other categories are still free to opt for something simple. Whatever makes you comfortable and works with the dances you’ve chosen. We have all kinds of catalogues for shoes and clothing, and, of course, we have Katarina right next door, and I can vouch for the beauty of her designs. We’ll also have someone to help with hair and makeup. Long hair’s best swept up out of the way. There’s nothing like throwing your partner off by smacking him in the face with your hair. Makeup should generally be very dark and dramatic—best for pictures and videos. This next is very important. Competitions move fast—always make sure you know where you’re supposed to be and when. Be in line or you’re disqualified. Your teachers are responsible for you, as well, but try not to torture them too much. Everyone will have an opportunity to see the floor and try it out before the competition begins, and, of course, there will be a professional show at our awards dinner.”

  Mina Long piped up. “What about shoes?” She hesitated. “Last competition, Lara Trudeau was appalled because I was wearing black shoes. I mean, it was like Joan Crawford in that movie, telling her children there would be no wire coat hangers in the house.”

  There was laughter after that statement. Uneasy laughter.

  Shannon answered casually. “Flesh-colored shoes are best, unless you’re doing a cabaret act and need a specific shoe for a specific outfit.”

  “Black shoes don’t go better with a black outfit?” Giselle, seated on the floor with Bobby, asked.

  Rhianna, hovering near Shannon, answered. “This may be in opposition to all the fashion advice you’ve ever heard, but think flesh, think beige. The right shoes are important, because the judges will be looking at your feet. When you’re heading out on the town, black heels may look good with your black dress, but in dance, go for the flesh-colored shoes, beige, tan.”

  “Why?” Mina asked.

  “You create a line,” Shannon said. “The leg looks longer, movement looks smoother. Check out some of the tapes we have and you’ll see. Compare the dancers with ‘blending’ shoes with those who have color, and you’ll see.”

  “You mean we’re going to be judged on our shoes?” Giselle asked.

  Shannon shook her head. “No, and of course, there’s nothing in the rule books that says you can’t buy any dance shoes you want. But take a look at the tapes, and you’ll see what Rhianna is saying for yourself. If you don’t agree, then you don’t agree. There are no laws.”

  Quinn looked around the room, noting that all the teachers, even Ben, were present. It made sense. They all had students entering the competition. Ben, who had been married to Lara and might have hated her. Jane and Sam, learning to compete together, always losing out. Rhianna, also a competitor. Justin Lopez. Shannon, who had good reason to hate the woman. Then there was Gordon Henson, who had given Lara her start. Jim, who Lara abused, but who needed her for what he craved in life.

  Then the students. Gabriel Lopez, who managed the club, and Katarina, who created the clothing. Lots of reasons for hatred, but lots of reasons for need. None of it gelled. Because why would any of them have hated Nell Durken? And what could they have to do with women found dead on the beach with drugs in their systems?

  None of it made sense. What would make sense would be that none of the deaths were related. Still…

  “So thank you all for coming. We’ll meet once a week until the competition, just for questions. Don’t forget to schedule your private lessons with your teachers, and thanks for coming,” Shannon said, rising.

  The meeting was over. Students were saying goodbye. Kissing goodbye—everyone here seemed to kiss everyone else goodbye on the cheek. It was like leaving after an Italian wedding.

  There was no reason to linger. The teachers were anxious to lock up and go home. In fact, Justin Garcia was out the door along with the students. It was nearly eleven, Quinn realized.

  But he had to linger. He stayed behind, avoiding his brother and Bobby as they left. He approached Shannon.

  “I can hang around, walk you to your car.”

  “No, thank you,” she said firmly. Coldly. He itched to take hold of her, shake her, tell her she was the best thing that happened to him in ages. In forever. He watched her dance, watched her move, and was afraid for no reason. Still, he felt a rising desperation to be near her.

  “Gordon and I will leave together,” she lied. Again, that ice in her voice. You do your thing. And leave me the hell alone.

  “All right, good night, then.” He turned to leave, then turned back. “Make sure you let Gordon walk you out.”

  “Absolutely.”

  He left. He had no choice.

  The last student left. Sam and Jane departed together, discussing the Gator Gala. Rhianna muttered something about having to stop for milk and flew out as if she were being chased by a banshee.

  Ella Rodriguez had gone out with her mother for her birthday that night, so Shannon went to the schedule board to make sure that any last-minute appointments had been filled in properly. She looked up to see that Ben, moody and grim, was hovering near the reception area.

  “Anything wrong?” she asked him.

  He shook his head. “Except that…”

  “What?”

  “There’s a rumor going around that you’re going to start working with Jim Burke.”

  Her brows flew up. “I don’t compete anymore. You know that. Who told you that?”

  “Gabe. Gabriel Lopez. He said it’s the talk down in the club.”

  “It may be talk, but it’s not true.” She sighed. “Ben, I don’t compete. I don’t want to compete. I really like what I do.”

  He looked away for a minute, then looked back at her. She was surprised by his expression. Ben was very good-looking—suave, dark, with deep, expressive eyes. They were on her intently right now.

  “What I was going to say was this—if the rumor was true, I was happy for you. You may think you don’t want to compete, but you do. I see your eyes sometimes when other people are on the floor. I see your mind working, and I know that you’re calculating steps. I screwed you over once. Big time. I wanted to get ahead too badly myself. You should compete. Not with me—I understand how you feel about me—but with someone. Someone good
. And Jim is good. I just wanted to say that you didn’t need to try to hide anything like this from me. I would be happy to see you compete with anyone, especially Jim.”

  She almost fell into the chair behind her, but instead simply stared at him for several long seconds. “Thanks, Ben. Thanks very much. But what you heard is a rumor.”

  He nodded. “Think about making it not be a rumor,” he said, then turned and walked away. “Good night—hey, go ahead and lock up when you leave. Gordon left a few minutes ago.”

  “Sure, thanks. Good night.”

  She heard the door close as Ben left.

  The music was off. There suddenly seemed to be an eerie silence in the studio.

  And she didn’t want to be there alone.

  She hadn’t finished with the schedule, but she didn’t care. She wished she hadn’t been so surprised by Ben’s words that she had let him leave; he would have stayed to walk out with her.

  She wished she’d kept Quinn O’Casey around. Why the hell hadn’t she?

  Because she’d been hurt.

  Maybe it was like her dancing. She’d been hurt, so…

  Stop, she told herself. Get your purse, get your keys, lock up and leave, rationally.

  She left the reception area and started to walk to her office for her purse. It was when she bent down to get it that she heard the noise.

  A cranking. A shifting. Something being opened then closed.

  She stood very still, trying to tell herself the noise was natural. There was a club on the floor below, after all.

  But the noise hadn’t come from below. It had come from the second floor.

  “Hello,” she called.

  She forced herself to throw her purse over her shoulder and walk calmly out to the studio area. There was no one there. Nothing had moved, nothing had changed. She felt a ripple along her spine.

  Maybe Katarina was working late.

  No, she and her husband had gone home directly from the meeting, they’d said good-night to her.

  Get out, get out, just get out, a little voice said to her.

  She fought the unreasoning sense of fear. Even if someone was around, they probably had a valid reason.