Death of a Tango Dancer

by Lisa Fernow

  DEATH OF A TANGO DANCER

  LISA FERNOW

  Booktrope Editions

  Seattle, WA 2014

  COPYRIGHT 2014 LISA FERNOW

  This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 Unported License.

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  Cover Design by Loretta Matson

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to similarly named places or to persons living or deceased is unintentional.

  EPUB ISBN 978-1-62015-682-7

  Table of Contents

  COVER

  TITLE PAGE

  COPYRIGHT PAGE

  DEATH OF A TANGO DANCER

  TO MY READERS

  EXCERPT FROM DEAD ON HER FEET

  MORE GREAT READS FROM BOOKTROPE

  “AS JORGE’S ENCHANTING PARTNER IN LIFE, as well as in tango, Beatriz, has unexpectedly, uh …” Daniel, the evening’s Tango Fest host, glanced longingly at the ballroom exit, “… become indisposed, we are fortunate to have Antonia Blakeley, one of our favorite visiting instructors, step in at short notice. Please give them a big Seattle welcome!”

  Indisposed, my aspidistra, Antonia thought as the audience applauded. Beatriz seemed perfectly healthy to me; she nearly took Jorge’s face off with that slap. Did she catch him with some young chica? Or maybe the rumors are true that he’s dealing cocaine.

  Either way, Antonia didn’t want to clasp Jorge to her bosom, which was basically how you danced close embrace tango. But sweet, stressed-out Daniel had begged, insisting that only she had the skill to follow the Argentine’s world-famous milonga, which wasn’t really true. Gonzalo, one of her favorite dance partners, had twisted the knife further, pointing out how bad it would be for the festival to end without a performance from their star attraction. And before she could strap on her stilettos, Jorge had brought his drink to her and Gonzalo’s table to tell her about the song he’d chosen.

  Antonia stepped onto the pista, conscious of how underdressed she must look in her yoga pants and camouflage mesh tee. Nothing as performance-worthy as Beatriz’ gold lamé costume with its cobweb of straps. Antonia smiled for the crowd of fellow dancers, many of whom she recognized from other festivals. She caught Daniel’s eye; he put his palms together Namaste style and mouthed Thank You.

  She’d met Daniel a few months back at her workshop on navigating in small spaces. Over beers he’d confided how his wife of twenty-one years had dragged him to tango classes to rekindle their marriage, then promptly dumped him for the instructor. Since then he’d thrown his broken heart into the dance. Inspired by a recent pilgrimage to Buenos Aires, Daniel had faithfully transformed China Harbor restaurant into a traditional Argentine dance hall. He’d lined the perimeter of a worn but level oak dance floor with café tables, installed a DJ station in the northeast corner, and set up a bar along the north wall to offer courage, succor or replenishment, depending on how well you were doing at finding dance partners. He’d even sponsored Jorge and Beatriz’ tour. The result: over two hundred tango addicts had given up their 4th of July weekends to travel to Seattle to dance and, if fortune smiled, to die in each other’s arms.

  Not that they ever do, Antonia thought, hitching up her bra strap.

  The DJ queued up Milonga De Mis Amores, and the orchestra launched into a high-spirited introduction. Antonia walked deliberately towards Jorge, and he towards her, a pair of gunslingers facing off. Honoring convention, Jorge wore a dark suit and had slicked back his gray hair. They met in the middle of the floor. She swept her ponytail over her left shoulder in a dramatic motion for the audience’s benefit, but her real purpose was to keep her hair out of Jorge’s face so he’d be able to see where he was going. Jorge insinuated his right arm around her back and drew her close, until their sternums touched.

  She draped her left arm around his shoulders.

  He took her hand.

  The crowd went still.

  His muscles feel just like hemp climbing ropes, the ones they have in gym classes, Antonia thought, willing her body not to shrink from his. And he smells like mayonnaise. Yuck.

  She closed her eyes to better feel their connection. Some performers relied on choreography, but their dance by necessity would be improvised. He’d transmit the lead through his chest and she’d follow, mostly going backward, which somehow seemed fitting given that she didn’t want to be there.

  Jorge took her from her left foot to her right foot and back to feel her weight shifts, and when the moment was right, he led the salida, the “exit” step that initiated the dance. And they were off.

  Jorge’s lead was immaculate. Precisely on the music, with the occasional syncopated step-step thrown in for spice.

  Beatriz should be in the spotlight, not me, Antonia thought. Opening her eyes, Antonia caught a flash of gold lamé and saw a petite, henna-haired woman slinking back to her seat. Beatriz. That figured. She could have performed after all.

  Step. Step. Step-step. Step. Antonia had settled into the rhythm when, with no apparent provocation, Jorge abruptly changed gears. He sped up. He slowed down. He sped up again.

  Jesus, what’s he doing? Antonia thought.

  Tick-tick-tick. Step. Step-step-step-step. Thank God the milonga’s only two and a half minutes, she thought, as they raced and stuttered around the floor. Sweat trickled down his cheek and onto hers, and she could feel his heart pounding erratically.

  Step.

  Step.

  Step.

  Step-a-step-a. Tick-tick-tick-tick. Step-a-step-a-step-a-step-a.

  They finished with a flourish, sweating and panting.

  The crowd went wild. They leapt to their feet. “Eso!” That’s it! “More! More! More!”

  Jorge released her and turned towards the crowd. He took her hand and raised it high. They bowed, hands clasped like Broadway actors, once for each side of the room. Then he kissed her cheek and invited the audience to applaud her. Finally, he took his accolades, bowing once, twice. Midway into his third bow, Jorge grunted, clutched his chest and toppled over.

  The crowd gasped. Antonia heard Beatriz shriek and scream out something in rapid Spanish. Everybody started talking and yelling.

  Holy mierda, he’s passed out, Antonia thought as she knelt by the Argentine’s side. “Jorge!”

  He didn’t answer.

  “Jorge!” She turned Jorge onto his back and placed her ear to his chest but she couldn’t hear his heartbeat. “Help!”

  Her friend Gonzalo was first to reach them. He pressed his fingers against Jorge’s carotid artery. “Call for an ambulance. Not that it will do any good. Mira, he’s had a heart attack.”

  Muscles like hemp ropes. Hemp - pot - cocaine. The rumors about Jorge being a cocaine dealer must be true, Antonia thought. “It can’t be.”

  “I’m a doctor; I know a dead man when I see one. This is a matter for the authorities.”

  Antonia slipped her hand into Jorge’s outer jacket pocket.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Rifling his pockets, what does it look like? You saw him. The man was going 120 in a 50-mile an hour zone. He’d lost the music. He must have overdosed on something.” Antonia searched his jac
ket, but found only a starched handkerchief. No pills. No plastic McDonald’s spoons. No rolled up twenty dollar bills.

  “Have you no respect for the dead?” Gonzalo tried to stop her from putting her hand down Jorge’s pants pocket. She became aware of a fresh commotion coming from the entrance. Looking up she saw a white-faced Daniel leading two paramedics towards them.

  The first paramedic asked, “What happened?”

  Antonia said, “He’s overdosed.”

  Gonzalo said, “He’s had a heart attack.”

  Antonia said, “Listen —”

  “We’ll take over, ma’am,” the second paramedic said. “If you’ll please go sit down.”

  Oh yeah, I’ll just take up needlepoint, Antonia thought. Up yours.

  Gonzalo said to her, “Why do you care how he died? You didn’t even know him.”

  “I don’t know. I just …” And suddenly Antonia flashed back to the night the police came to her house. Their house. She took a breath, forcing the air deep into her lungs. “The police will take the path of least resistance. And the innocent will suffer.”

  Daniel gripped her by the arm, inadvertently digging his fingernails into her skin. “Help me out here, Antonia. We need to keep everyone calm and give these guys a chance to do their jobs until the authorities get here.”

  Antonia collected herself and helped Daniel settle the dancers back into their seats. The DJ had left her station and was ministering to Beatriz, who had worked herself into a crying jag.

  Antonia made her way over to the bar where a young man with multiple piercings and an Owl and the Pussycat tattoo was pouring glasses of water for the dancers. “Hey, did you by chance serve Jorge anything to drink or eat?”

  The bartender scratched his nose with the back of his hand. “The dead guy?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Nope.”

  “Are you sure? He smelled like he’d eaten something with mayonnaise in it. A sandwich?”

  “We don’t sell food. Just nuts.”

  “What about to drink?”

  “Nada.”

  “Jorge was drinking wine earlier. How did he get that if you didn’t serve him?”

  The bartender shrugged. “Daniel gave it to him.”

  Daniel, hearing his name, joined them at the bar, smart phone in hand. “What is it?”

  The bartender said, “I told her you gave him and his friend a bottle of wine.”

  Antonia said, “I think Jorge may have overdosed on cocaine.”

  “You don’t eat or drink weasel dust,” the bartender informed her. “You rub it on your gums, snort, smoke or inject. Not that I recommend drugs of any kind,” he quickly added. “Your body is your temple. That’s why I went vegan.”

  If I were a mother I’d know all of this, Antonia thought. Nuts. “I don’t suppose either of you saw him stuffing something up his nose. Disguised as nasal spray, maybe?”

  Daniel glanced back at the room, probably checking to make sure his guests weren’t freaking out. It was typical of the man that he’d be more concerned about everyone else’s feelings, but most of the dancers were probably more shocked than saddened. Few of them had ever met Jorge before. “I drove Jorge and Beatriz to the club,” he said. “He didn’t bring his cigarettes and he definitely didn’t snort anything in the car. I seated them at their table —”

  “— and you served them a bottle of wine, yes.” Antonia wanted to preempt the long explanation of what he’d selected and why. All she needed to know was when and how Jorge could have poisoned himself.

  Daniel nodded. “Yes, we all had a glass. A Betz Syrah, 2001 —”

  “Did Jorge go outside at all?”

  “I know he didn’t leave the restaurant early in the evening because I was taking tickets at the door.”

  “Gonzalo and I had the table next to him and Beatriz, but I was dancing most of the time so I don’t know if he left the table. He could have.”

  “I know Beatriz did – she came to say hello.” Daniel blushed, and for a fleeting moment he looked younger than his forty-nine years. “Then he and Beatriz got into an argument over something, I don’t know what. I didn’t want people to see them fighting so I announced the fireworks early, and got everyone into the main dining room and onto the balcony. Then I came back to the ballroom to see if I could help, but by that point Jorge had followed Beatriz outside. He wasn’t out of my sight for more than a few minutes. Then he came back in and told me she refused to go on. That’s when I came for you.”

  Antonia said, “Leaving Jorge alone in the ballroom?”

  “Not technically,” the bartender interjected. “I can’t see the entrance from here — pillar’s in the way. But I’d have noticed if he’d smoked anything.” With that, the bartender poured out a glass of red wine and set it in front of her.

  And I’d have smelled it, Antonia realized, gratefully accepting the stimulant.

  Daniel said, “Someone must have seen something.”

  “Let’s ask Erla,” Antonia said. “As the DJ, she had a bird’s eye view.” Antonia looked over to Jorge and Beatriz’ table, expecting to find Erla, but instead she saw Gonzalo handing Beatriz her evening clutch and helping her to her feet. Erla had returned to the DJ station and was tinkering with her equipment. Antonia waved her over.

  Erla threw her arms around Antonia. “This is dreadful.”

  “I know,” Antonia said, hugging her. “Here, sit. Have some wine?”

  Erla nodded and clambered onto one of the bar stools, all elbows and knees. Someone had raised the house lights to full and the lanky Icelandic’s expression was even more stoic than usual.

  “How is Beatriz?” Daniel asked.

  Erla pulled her hair away from her face and twisted it into a knot. “She’s taking this hard. I don’t think she knows exactly what happened. Her English isn’t fluent. Thank goodness for Gonzalo.”

  Something’s wrong, Antonia thought. Daniel knows Beatriz better than anyone else here, and he’s the festival host. Why hasn’t he gone to comfort her?

  Her thoughts were interrupted by Rhonda, Jorge and Beatriz’ Seattle host, who had sashayed up to the bar.

  “Christ, what a mess,” Rhonda said, flapping her Spanish fan. She wore a fuschia dress that perfectly flattered her olive skin. “Of all the ways to go, right in the middle of a standing ovation. I need a drink.” She called out to the bartender. “Scotch please, lots of ice.”

  Antonia said, “Jorge and Beatriz were staying at your house, right?”

  She snapped her fan shut. “He’s not. I threw that loser out this morning. Took his counterfeit Louis Vuitton bag and his pirated CDs and dumped everything out into the street.”

  You go girl, Antonia thought.

  “Jorge told me he and Beatriz had broken up, that they were still living as a couple for appearances’ sake, but they were just business partners. So we hooked up. You gotta admit he had what it took, even at his age. Then one night I heard them fighting.”

  “What about?”

  “Beatriz accused him of cheating on her, and using me to get to the U.S. You should have heard them yelling.”

  “In Argentina, infidelity’s a leisure pastime,” Antonia said, relieved the fighting had been confined to words.

  Rhonda slammed back her Scotch. “Not with me it isn’t. I should have known better. I am the biggest idiot west of the Cascades.”

  Erla said, “I knew something terrible was going to happen. Uranus is moving into retrograde.”

  “What does that have to do with anything?” Antonia asked.

  “Uranus is the planet of revolution and reversals,” Erla intoned.

  “Don’t tell me you knew Jorge would die.”

  “The planetary influences are never that clear. But I had a feeling. I warned Daniel when we were in B.A. not to bring Jorge to the U.S. Everyone says he’s into drugs. Of course Daniel has a soft spot for Beatriz and their signs are highly compatible.”

  Ah ha, Antonia thought.

&nbs
p; “That’s not true,” Daniel protested, wiping his palms on the front of his shirt and blushing madly.

  Erla, in spite of her astrological forecasting ability, seemed unaware she’d put her foot in it. “Don’t you remember, in Buenos Aires, you asked me to read your —”

  “The police are here.” Daniel whirled abruptly and stalked away.

  Antonia turned and saw that, indeed, the police had arrived in the form of one nerdy looking uniformed officer who was probably calculating the fastest way to wrap up the case and get home to his Wii. Wii wii wii all the way home. “Wait!” She started out onto the dance floor and tried to flag down the officer to tell him about Jorge’s odd behavior on the pista, but he and Daniel passed right by her.

  This is ridiculous, Antonia thought. I’m the star witness, and they’re blowing me off.

  Well, in that case, I’ll just keep investigating.

  She sauntered back to her table, I’m just minding my own business, and sat down. She glanced to see whether the paramedics were looking, saw they weren’t, no surprise there, and scooted her chair around so it was between her table and the one where Jorge and Beatriz had passed the first part of the evening. Like the others, their table was covered with a white cloth and held a small vase with a single red rose and a votive candle. Next to the candle stood a hand lettered “Reserved” sign, the Betz Syrah bottle that Daniel had given the couple, and Jorge’s wine glass. The waiter hadn’t had a chance to clear yet.

  Antonia casually laid her hand on the table: Bless you, my son. The paramedics paid her no attention. So far so good. She lifted the “Reserved” sign to see if Jorge had stowed anything under the folded cardboard. No evidence of anything that might have contained or conveyed cocaine. She trailed her fingers across the cloth. No conveniently spilled grains of powder.

  I should have started with the men’s room, she thought. That’s where I’d go if I wanted a moment alone with my drug of choice. She was about to get up when she spied an envelope on the floor, half hidden by the tablecloth.

  Pretending to take off her shoes, Antonia bent over and felt around under Jorge’s table until she could touch the edge of the envelope, but it was just out of reach. Abandoning her act, she dropped to her hands and knees, snatched her prize, and quickly scrambled back to her chair.