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

by Lisa Fernow

  Christian broke into a lopsided grin. “If you mean tango, yeah, she’s been working on me.”

  “Relentlessly, I imagine.”

  Christian snorted, much to Antonia’s satisfaction. She knew he must be feeling out of his element, separated from his computer, forced into a sport coat, and plopped down in an exotic culture.

  Eduardo said, “Christian, don’t let Antonia push you around. Always remember you wear the pants, not the woman.”

  “With her you need two sets of pants,” Christian said.

  “Hey!” Antonia pretended to cuff him.

  Eduardo greeted her with their usual luxurious hug, taking her up on her toes. He finished it by spinning her around and setting her gently back on her feet.

  “What’s going on, you seem in such good spirits?” she asked.

  “No Argentine is ever happy. Just less morose.”

  “You’re going to help me with Christian, right? Show him how men treat women in a civilized culture?”

  “Why don’t you trust him to make his own decisions? Could there be a deeper motivation here? I know you love him. Perhaps you’re channeling your maternal impulses to avoid—”

  “Just explain some of the customs, that’s all I’m asking.” Antonia knew Eduardo couldn’t resist a good teaching moment.

  “Has Antonia explained about the cabeceo?” Eduardo asked Christian. “Cabeza means ‘head.’ If you want to invite a woman to dance in Buenos Aires you don’t walk up to her table. You catch her eye and nod.” He demonstrated on Antonia.

  Antonia said, “Actually, the woman initiates the cabeceo by inviting eye contact.”

  “She’s right,” Eduardo agreed. “The woman chooses the man.”

  Roland winked at Christian. “That’s a universal truth.”

  Shawna said, “Let’s get something to drink, shall we?”

  Eduardo didn’t invite the men to his table. Instead he joined Roland and Christian at theirs, which was odd considering the value of his real estate, but as long as he sat with Christian her plan would work. She edged her chair closer to the men’s table and heard Eduardo say to Roland, “I was saddened to hear the news about Miles. And very sorry I was unable to attend the funeral.”

  Roland signaled the waiter. “A tragic accident.”

  “A curious thing. Miles phoned me, it must have been right before he died.”

  Roland stiffened in his chair. “He did? What did he say?”

  “We never spoke. He only left a message for me to call.”

  Roland signaled the waiter again. “What a pity.”

  “What will happen with your business now?”

  “He left his half to me. We’ll carry on as before but I may have to look for another partner.”

  Eduardo clapped Roland’s shoulder. “Speaking of which, my friend, I am pleased to hear you are finally becoming respectable.”

  Roland hesitated. “What do you mean?”

  “Marriage.” Eduardo said to Christian, “At Roland’s age so many men become fearful of commitment.”

  Roland laughed uneasily. “Hey, buddy, I only have one toe in the grave.”

  Antonia glanced at Shawna to see what she was making of Eduardo’s analysis, which in her opinion was right on the mark, but Shawna was busy ordering her usual mineral water.

  Meanwhile, Eduardo was warming to his theme with professional enthusiasm. “These men become disenchanted with life and spend their years alone. Or worse, they become picaflors, flitting from woman to woman to prove their—”

  “That’s enough, amigo,” Roland said. “Thank you.”

  “No one can deny his true nature,” Eduardo said. “I see the way you are with women.”

  Roland glanced uneasily at Shawna. “Only when I dance.”

  “And we know that tango is the window to our souls.”

  It was such a pleasure to see Roland at a disadvantage. It happened so rarely. Miles’ ex-wife certainly got him good at the funeral. What had she meant when she’d accused Roland of being responsible for Miles’ death? And why did Roland look so uncomfortable when Eduardo mentioned Miles had phoned him? What could Miles have said to Eduardo that would have been so damaging? It was hard to imagine the scion of Atlanta risking his reputation for anything seriously criminal.

  The DJ started a fresh tanda and through the miracle of digital remastering, Miguel Calo’s 1930s orchestra swelled with a rich, cheerful introduction. Women stretched tall in their chairs, craning their necks to make eye contact. Men nodded and, one by one, rose with dignity from their seats. They crossed the room, some in dark suits, others dressed more casually, eyes focused on their prizes.

  “O-ka-ay.” Shawna slipped a fish-netted foot into her dance shoe and buckled the strap. “I don’t know what you’re plotting, Ant, but I’m here to dance. That’s what we came for, right?

  Antonia watched Shawna attract and accept the nod of a young Slavic-looking man who crossed the room to take her hand and escort her onto the pista. Tenor Raul Beron began to sing. The tenderness in the singer’s voice always left Antonia wishing she could have his babies, except for the small problem that he’d died in 1982. Somehow the music bridged that gap, as it did all distances.

  I can’t stand it, Antonia thought. I have to dance this one. She scanned the room hoping to find an out-of-town visitor to welcome to Atlanta. A nice-looking, compactly built man with blue eyes and a neatly trimmed mustache was looking her way. His face looked vaguely familiar. Maybe they had danced together before, maybe in Seattle or Portland, she didn’t remember. But when she tried to catch his eye he averted his gaze rather abruptly, so she tried to attract Eduardo’s attention but he was deep in conversation with Christian and Roland. The Charming Child had shifted around so all she saw was the back of his head, sleek and black in silhouette, looking distinctly conspiratorial.

  “Roland, hey, look, someone is smiling at you,” Christian said. “The lady in the low-cut dress.”

  “Which one?” Roland joked, turning back around, and all three of them laughed because there wasn’t a woman there who wasn’t showing off every asset she had. Roland inclined his head towards the center of the room where a young woman with a ponytail was chatting with a stocky middle-aged man. “What do you think of her?” Roland might have been asking a customer what he thought of a nineteenth century Heriz carpet.

  “Cut it out, Roland.” Antonia was glad Shawna was dancing so she wouldn’t see her fiancé buying and selling college girls with his eyes. How annoying. Someone would have to stay nearby to balance out the Bad Influence. As a visiting milonguero and instructor Eduardo would be in hot demand. Since she was an unofficial host for the weekend it would be up to her to sacrifice herself on the altar of Southern hospitality.

  But thankfully Roland fell silent so Antonia was able to scoot back to the girls’ table to enjoy the mating ritual.

  Eduardo rose from the table and crossed the room, headed towards a visiting dancer with white hair and black, imperfectly penciled brows. He took her hand and led her to the floor. After chatting for a few moments he took her into the embrace. She settled her left arm around his shoulders, and when the music was right, and the moment was right, they moved as one. They circled with confidence around the floor, matching the passionate and sweet phrasing in the music. Eduardo stepped like a panther, moving deliberately and softly, sheltering his partner from the movement around them, a fact that was not lost on any of the women watching him. Eduardo’s partner looked radiant in his arms and it no longer mattered that her makeup hadn’t suited her in twenty years. Antonia watched them for the rest of the tanda, enjoying it almost as much as they seemed to.

  The cortina played, marking the end of the set. Couples drifted contentedly from the floor. A young man with dreadlocks mopped his brow with a linen handkerchief, escorted his partner back to her table, and took his leave with a respectful, chivalrous gesture. Que lindo. Beautiful.

  The DJ started up a new tanda. Conversations subsided agai
n as people looked for partners. Shawna, having proven herself, didn’t even make it back to the table.

  “—if you want to sleep with a woman in Buenos Aires you ask her out for coffee.”

  It took Antonia a moment to realize that Christian had been alone with the Bad Influence for almost fifteen minutes, listening to God knows what. Nuts. Where was Eduardo? He was supposed to be helping her.

  She rejoined the men’s table and cocked an eyebrow at her nephew. “What’s this reprobate been telling you?”

  “Nothing. He—” Christian sat bolt upright.

  Antonia turned to see what had caught his eye. A spectacular Hitchcock blonde, cool and composed, stood in the entrance. She wore a black sheath dress that clung perfectly to her willowy frame. She looked like she belonged at a Sotheby’s auction, or a gallery opening, the kind you could get into only if you knew someone. Something about her looked familiar but Antonia couldn’t put her finger on it. Maybe she’d seen her in a magazine somewhere. She was that beautiful.

  Roland whistled under his breath. But Eduardo had materialized at her side and, judging by their greeting, they knew each other. Intimately.

  Eduardo hadn’t mentioned he was seeing anyone, Antonia thought. Wowie. Good for him. She said to Christian, “Remember what I said. If Eduardo invites her to sit with him at his table that tells the men here it’s a relationship—don’t touch.” Then she realized if Eduardo sat with her that would leave Christian alone with Roland.

  Nuts.

  Eduardo and his elegant companion made their way through the crowd. She moved like a ballerina. They stopped in front of the men’s table. Roland rose from his chair and Christian, seeing this, scrambled to his feet, leaving Antonia the only one seated.

  Eduardo said, “May I present my dear friend, Nathalie LeFebre.”

  Nathalie beamed at Eduardo much the way politicians’ wives did at press conferences. “We’re practically engaged, aren’t we, darling?”

  Eduardo beamed back. “Querida, in my country it is usual for the man to take the first step.”

  Her smile tightened.

  She didn’t like that at all, Antonia thought. Very interesting.

  Roland seemed to take this as an opening. “I’m Roland Guest.”

  Nathalie tossed her hair, glanced at Eduardo, then looked with deliberation into Roland’s eyes and extended her hand, palm down. “What a romantic name, Roland. Do you live up to your billing?”

  If Roland had been a dog his ears would have pricked up. Instead, he took Nathalie’s hand and kissed it. “I can’t compete with Eduardo. All I can hope is that one of my oriental carpets turns out to be magic. I own an antiques store,” he added, with false modesty.

  Roland’s idea of foreplay. Tell her you’re rich. Antonia looked out over the sea of couples to see if Shawna had noticed, but thankfully she was dreaming in her partner’s arms.

  Nathalie said, “Really, what a coincidence! I’m an interior designer. Is your business limited to the US or do you work internationally too?”

  She might as well have asked him for the balance in his bank account, Antonia thought. What was Eduardo doing with her?

  Eduardo slipped his arm around Nathalie’s back. “You must congratulate Roland. He has recently become engaged.”

  “To one of my greatest friends,” Antonia pointedly added.

  Nathalie ignored her and said to Christian, “And what’s your name?”

  “Me?” Christian started to stick his hand out, thought better of it, tucked his shirt in tighter and stuck his hand out again, this time connecting. Nathalie held his hand just a little too long.

  “Hi.” Antonia rose from the table.

  Eduardo said, “May I present Antonia Blakeley. We’re teaching a master class together.”

  Nathalie gave her a look that seemed to calculate her weight, net worth, and military strength all at once.

  Antonia took stock of Nathalie’s slightly wide-set green eyes and golden, toned shoulders and was seized by a mischievous impulse to hold her own hand out, palm down, imitating Nathalie’s earlier gesture. “So-oo delighted to meet you.”

  It was tempting to dismiss her as a not too subtle femme fatale. But Antonia couldn’t stop the tune in her head, “Uno,” that talked of wicked eyes and betrayals.

  CHAPTER 7

  Amague

  A feint, often used before taking a step. From amagar—to make a threatening move

  ANTONIA DREW EDUARDO ASIDE. “I thought you were going to help me with Christian. You know what Roland’s like. Can’t we all sit together?”

  Eduardo said, “I see I’ll get no rest until you are satisfied. But don’t expect me to watch either of them. I intend to monopolize Nathalie.”

  “Who is she?”

  “I’ll tell you the story later.”

  They merged the tables and Antonia arranged Roland, Shawna, herself, Christian, Eduardo, and Nathalie in a semi-circle facing the dance floor, successfully placing Christian far away from Roland.

  Nathalie looked older on closer inspection. Even in the muted light Antonia could see the faint frown lines between her brows. “So,” Antonia said, dying to know how far the relationship had actually progressed, “how did you meet Eduardo?”

  Nathalie twirled her gold necklace around her beautifully manicured finger. “I studied tango in Paris. And I thought it would be fun to take lessons in Argentina. I’d come down to BA to look for chandeliers. The bargains in San Telmo were simply marvelous, what with the economy being such a disaster.”

  Eduardo disentangled Nathalie from her jewelry and took her hand. “I think this woman must have been Argentine in another life. When our country was wealthier, when my compatriots would go shopping they’d always say, ‘Give me two!’”

  “Your family has certainly suffered.” Roland tossed out the comment casually.

  The furrows in Nathalie’s brow deepened as she seemed to calculate the implications of the statement.

  What did Eduardo see in her? She was obviously some sort gold digger, or in her case, a peso digger, and not a very well informed one, at that, when you considered Eduardo’s family lost their haciendas and polo ponies under Perón. Eduardo was too experienced to be swayed by youth and sex appeal alone. There had to be something more.

  Meanwhile Eduardo smiled as if he still had two of everything. “Life does not stop for reversals of fortune.” He signaled the waiter. By this point the club had completely filled and the noise level had risen considerably. “A glass of champagne, querida, to celebrate our upcoming trip to Argentina? I suggest the Chandon.”

  “Just a teensy one, darling.”

  “Let me get this,” Roland offered. “I’m going down to Argentina as well, as it happens.”

  Shawna said, “Again? You just came back.”

  “Oh really? Maybe I’ll see you there,” Nathalie said.

  “And I had a piece of good news today on the business front. We’ll drink to fortunes gained and lost.” Roland intercepted the waiter. “A bottle of your best champagne. Do you have Dom Perignon? No, let’s have two. We’re all Argentines tonight. What’s money?”

  Eduardo flushed. “I insist. It’s my invitation.”

  “Roland, it’s Eduardo’s party,” Shawna said.

  “We don’t need two bottles,” Antonia insisted, knowing she and Shawna would only have a glass apiece, but it was too late. The waiter had disappeared.

  Antonia wasn’t sure if it was the room heating up from the crowd or her embarrassment at Roland’s behavior, but she was beginning to feel distinctly warmer than she had fifteen minutes earlier. This was not the civilized social environment she’d hoped to expose Christian to. Roland was stirring up a ridiculous competition with Eduardo. In fact, come to think of it, Roland had been acting recklessly all evening. Almost fey. His comment about fortunes gained and lost sounded as if he’d been gambling. He’d just inherited Miles’ half of the business. Had Miles’ death saved Roland from financial disaster?

/>   The waiter reappeared with two ice buckets of champagne, opened the first bottle and filled their glasses. Eduardo touched his flute to Nathalie’s.

  The DJ followed the cortina with a Canaro waltz and the temporary mating ritual began anew. Individual men and women met each other’s eyes and, through the alchemy of cabeceo, transformed into couples. They stood on the floor and chatted, waiting for the right moment in the music to begin. Shawna attracted the nod of a distinguished-looking man in a white suit who came to escort her to the floor.

  The key, Antonia realized, was to get Roland onto the pista. Then she could dance, too. So she said to Roland, “Why don’t you invite one of the out-of-towners? That’s what you came for, isn’t it?”

  ”You are right, as always.” Roland turned his attention to scoping out a partner for the next tanda, leaving Antonia free to listen to the last waltz, Canaro’s “El Jardin del Amor”. When the musical introduction drew to its lugubrious end and the piano took over, setting a fresh tempo, couples on the crowded floor simultaneously began to move as if led by an unseen conductor. The vortex of dancers swirled around the perimeter as one body. Antonia imagined rather than heard the collective swish of suede and leather-soled feet polishing the Brazilian-cherry floor.

  She leaned over to speak to Christian. “Isn’t it beautiful? It’s sort of like a school of fish.” But just then a lanky young man in a Hawaiian shirt and jeans stepped backwards against the line of dance, nearly smacking into the couple behind him, who unfortunately for him happened to be an Argentine milonguero and a visiting Seattle instructor. The Argentine gave him a dirty look and drew his partner closer.

  Aloha Man clearly didn’t realize there were two lanes of traffic. After advancing a few steps he drifted towards the center of the floor and the Argentine promptly moved into the space the dancer and his partner had occupied. Aloha Man, seeing he was losing his place in line, tried to push back into the outer lane. Antonia cringed, knowing what was coming.

  The Argentine held his left arm further out from his body and led a quick turn to the left, elbowing the other man sharply in the shoulder and causing him to stop in his tracks. The interruption reverberated through the couples downstream, forcing the whole floor to back up.