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

by Lisa Fernow

  No obstacles on the dance floor. No posts disguised as palm trees. Roland and Nathalie a good distance off. Antonia and Christian further ahead. Nobody else on the floor. Candles everywhere but out of harm’s way. His eyes had adjusted, more or less, to the dim light. West wall: nothing but windows and four unoccupied folding chairs. What looked like an empty plastic glass under that last one. Watch out. It could roll. South: archway to living room and entrance to hallway, clear. East: CD player safely abutting the wall. The vague outline of a palm tree tucked into the corner. A Chrysalidocarpas? North: no one in the doorway to the kitchen. Seven folding chairs. Eduardo and Barbara sitting in the two middle ones.

  He tried to sharpen his awareness of the others in the room; that was part of his responsibility as a leader. People teased him about his poor eyesight but he noticed more than they appreciated.

  Roland and Nathalie—two feet ahead. Roland alternated between walking and leading molinetes, having Nathalie walk around him while he turned in place. Still a wide safety margin. Christian and Antonia—further up ahead near the CD player. Christian muttered something in Antonia’s ear. They stopped dancing. She headed for the kitchen.

  Passing Barbara and Eduardo, Bobby saw they were deep in conversation. Eduardo had his arm around her but he was honorable. Unlike Roland. The sooner Roland was out of the picture for good, the better. He said to Shawna as they rounded the corner, “When is Roland getting married?”

  “Not now,” she answered tersely and he remembered he wasn’t supposed to talk while dancing.

  Step, step, step, step. Antonia was right: dancing without his glasses was helping him hear the music better. Roland was leading another molinete, not going anywhere, so Bobby started a series of rock steps, turning in place while he waited for Roland to advance along the line of dance. He tried closing his eyes and sensing like a bat. Barbara told him how the Incas wore clothing made from vampire bat wool. Man could learn much from the animal kingdom. He wondered if pterodactyls had once had sonar powers like bats. He rocked back expecting the space to be empty but instead found himself slamming into something solid.

  “Oh!” Nathalie and Shawna cried out simultaneously. Bobby felt Shawna shudder.

  He opened his eyes and realizing he was about to lose his balance pivoted and stepped with the full force of his weight onto his right foot, which unfortunately landed directly on Shawna’s left. She cried out. The worst had happened. He’d collided with another couple and stepped on his partner.

  “Jesus, Bobby.” Roland felt his forehead. Nathalie groaned and felt hers as well. Evidently they had knocked them together.

  Nathalie finally caught her breath. “What is it with you? Can’t you look where you’re going?”

  Somehow he’d gotten turned around and stepped backwards in the line of dance. Antonia had warned him never to do that. He’d closed his eyes as well so he was doubly to blame. “Sorry, sorry. My fault, entirely. Apologies all around.”

  Shawna rubbed her foot. “It’s nothing. Nothing, really.” She sounded out of breath and Bobby realized he must have trod on her instep pretty badly.

  “Let me see,” he said. “Hold up your foot.”

  “No, no, thanks, please don’t bother. Let me just change my shoes.” Shawna limped off.

  Roland led Nathalie to a folding chair and helped her sit. He put his arm around her shoulders and she sank against his chest. The cortina played. Barbara pulled at Eduardo’s arm and he followed her to the pista. Bobby, realizing he was in the way, went to stand next to the CD player. Shawna shuffled back into the dining room a moment or two later, still in her kimono but now wearing a pair of fuzzy slippers. Three incapacitated women in one evening, of which at least two were his fault.

  He realized Roland was signaling for him and Shawna to come over. They both approached.

  Shawna said, “What is it?”

  Roland said, “It’s Nathalie. She doesn’t look good.”

  Shawna knelt down to speak to Nathalie. “Are you all right?” Bobby saw Roland’s two lovers side by side, both white-faced: one from nature, one from artifice.

  Nathalie shook her head. “I can’t … I feel faint.”

  Shawna opened her fan and fluttered it in Nathalie’s face.

  Roland said, “She needs to lie down.”

  “Bring her to the bedroom,” Shawna said.

  “I’m so sorry. All my fault. Allow me.” Bobby took Nathalie by one arm and Roland took the other and together they half-carried, half-escorted her out of the dining room and down the hall to Shawna’s bedroom.

  Shawna pointed to a large armchair, upholstered with an old-fashioned pattern of what looked like roses. “Put her here. Let her rest for a minute.”

  Bobby helped Roland ease Nathalie into the chair and prop her feet onto the ottoman while Shawna knelt by Nathalie’s side and loosened the fringed scarf that was knotted around her neck.

  “Roland,” Shawna said, “get some ice and wrap it in a towel and bring it to me. Bobby, everything’s under control here, thanks.” Her calm authority reminded him she was a flight attendant and used to dealing with problems.

  He decided to check on Barbara. She’d been drinking all evening. He’d lost track of the number of glasses—hard to measure exact ounces consumed when people kept abandoning half empty cups around the place and pouring themselves fresh ones. Time to drive her home as soon as he could remember where he’d left his spectacles.

  He was halfway to the dining room when he heard a woman screaming.

  CHAPTER 22

  Salida

  Exit.

  In tango, an opening move

  IT TOOK ANTONIA A MOMENT to realize the screams were serious. Not the delighted shrieks of teenagers pulling a Halloween prank on an unsuspecting friend or the indignant screeches of ladies going at each other in a garment-rending, face-clawing, hair-yanking brawl.

  Real trouble.

  She dropped the plastic cup she’d been rinsing out at the kitchen sink and turned towards the noise. It seemed to be coming from the bedroom but with the Pugliese blasting away in the next room she couldn’t exactly tell.

  Roland stood in front of the open freezer about to reach for a tray of ice. He hesitated. He turned. Their eyes met briefly. She turned towards the bedroom, each staccato accent from Pugliese’s violins and bandoneon punctuating her feelings of mounting fear.

  “Help! Oh, God. Somebody help!” Shawna staggered into the kitchen, her face, chalk white with geisha makeup except for the scarlet daubs on her lips, contorted into an expression of horror. Her formal Japanese wig had shifted back on her forehead, revealing a margin of auburn hair against the black. She clutched a dark bundle of fabric to her chest. She looked frantically around but didn’t appear to realize anyone was in the kitchen. Hampered by her costume she tottered into the dining room.

  Shawna’s hurt, Antonia thought. “Wait!” She followed her friend.

  Shawna stopped dead center on the dance floor and held up the cloth away from her body like a priestess conveying an offering. She brought her left hand in front of her face and began to keen. Antonia saw the glitter of gold threads and matted silk fringe and realized she was looking at Nathalie’s flamenco dancer’s shawl.

  “No!” Antonia raced back through the kitchen to the bedroom trying not to trip over her toga. When she crossed the threshold all she could see at first was the flickering light from the votives. She fumbled for the light switch and flipped it on.

  Nathalie had collapsed in Shawna’s armchair. She was no longer beautiful. Her legs had slipped off the ottoman to rest akimbo under the folds of her flowing black skirt. Tendrils of blonde hair had escaped from her chignon and left damp wisps across her pale face. Her breaths came in harsh, fitful rasps.

  Antonia knelt down, felt for Nathalie’s wrist and for a few heartbeats couldn’t distinguish the woman’s feeble pulse from her own. She threw her arms around Nathalie to raise her to a sitting position and, looking over Nathalie’s shoulde
r for a cushion, saw that blood had seeped into the faded upholstery. A lot of blood. Her stomach lurched.

  She became aware of the others crowding into the bedroom.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Santo Dios!”

  “What’s happening?”

  “Jesus!”

  Only Roland hung back in the doorway, a cringing superhero in his bullfighter’s cape. He let the dishcloth he’d been holding fall open. Ice dropped out and skittered across the wooden floor.

  Antonia fought back her panic. “Call 9-1-1. Shawna, get the first-aid kit.” She remembered she wasn’t supposed to move an injured person so she lowered Nathalie back to her original position. She took Nathalie’s limp, clammy hand in hers and squeezed it lightly but there was no answering pressure.

  Cabinet doors banged open and shut. Shawna, in the kitchen, called out, “I can’t find it.”

  Eduardo stooped over and touched two fingers to the side of Nathalie’s neck, cursing under his breath in Spanish.

  Antonia ran her hand under Nathalie’s back. She had to find where the bleeding was coming from. Nathalie needed a bandage. A tourniquet. Something. Antonia’s fingers traced a warm, wet patch just below Nathalie’s left shoulder blade. She brought out her hand and when she saw fresh blood on it the bile rose in her throat. “She’s been stabbed. Call 9-1-1, somebody.” She stuffed the end of her toga behind Nathalie’s back to staunch the blood before realizing it would tether her to the injured woman. “Roland. Give me the towel.”

  He stood, transfixed.

  “Roland!”

  He just stood there.

  “Dammit, Roland, do something. Call 9-1-1! Now!”

  Eduardo grabbed her elbow. “The telephone. Where does she keep it?” Before she could answer he’d disappeared.

  “I got it.” Shawna returned at last from the kitchen carrying the first-aid kit. Her fingers scrabbled against the metal case. It flew from her grasp and struck the floor. The lid sprang open and Band-Aids and bandages spewed onto the carpet.

  Barbara cried out, “She’s going to die!”

  Nathalie suddenly opened her eyes. One of her contact lenses had slipped, leaving one green eye and one brown eye staring out in fear. The muscles in her neck strained as she struggled to raise her head.

  Antonia leaned closer. “Who did this to you?”

  Nathalie’s lips parted. She tried to speak. All that came out was a bright red bubble.

  “Antonia!” Bobby cast off the cardboard sign that had been dangling down the back of his neck and began to undo his dress shirt. He fumbled with the last buttons. “Here!”

  “Hurry!”

  “Yes. Right.” In his agitation he couldn’t get the last button to go through the hole and finally just yanked it, popping the button onto the carpet. He stripped off his shirt and pressed it into her hand.

  Eduardo burst into the room. “I’ll do it,” he said, his voice urgent but controlled. “You call.”

  Eduardo knelt in front of the chair, circled his arms around Nathalie and drew her towards him. Propping her chest against his, Eduardo tied the shirt around her back, knotting the sleeves in the front. He cradled Nathalie in his arms, buried his head in her hair and rocked her as the white shirt bloomed red.

  CHAPTER 23

  Day of the Dead

  ANTONIA LED THE EMERGENCY WORKERS to the bedroom whereupon they promptly threw her out. She backtracked to the kitchen and found the water still running in the sink so she stuck her hands under the faucet to rinse off Nathalie’s blood. As she turned off the tap a policewoman bustled in, scolded her for contaminating the crime scene, and shooed her out onto the front porch to wait in the dark with the others.

  A linebacker of a policeman stationed himself in front of the door to prevent them from going back into the house and in a quiet, calm voice, ordered everyone to shut up.

  There was nothing she could do. It was horrible.

  Christian had taken refuge in the corner of the porch. Shoulders hunched, hands pressed against the screen, he stared out at the street.

  Barbara and Bobby had taken the wicker loveseat. Barbara sobbed in Bobby’s arms, trying without success to catch her breath. Bobby tried to get her to drink a glass of water and she pushed it away. He’d sweated clear through his undershirt.

  Shawna had retreated to the rocking chair and was putting it to good use. Her tears had cut rivulets through the white makeup and she’d bitten away most of her lipstick, leaving a red tide mark above her upper lip. Antonia pulled up a chair and, smelling vomit on Shawna’s breath, used an unstained section of her toga to wipe her friend’s mouth while Shawna stared out at nothing. Rocking, rocking, rocking.

  Roland stood as far apart from the others as he could in their contained circumstances. He avoided looking at anyone. Eduardo paced the short length of the porch with his hands in his pockets, looking through the windows into the house. From the muscles that moved in his jaw Antonia realized he was clenching and unclenching his teeth.

  A group of onlookers returning from Halloween parties began to gather in front of the house. Someone in a latex Frankenstein head said something to a man dressed as a circus clown, while the lights from the ambulance and patrol cars cast surreal stripes of color on their masks.

  A light breeze tickled her arm. A weather front was blowing in. What could the police be doing in there? She couldn’t hear anything from inside the house. The music had stopped long ago. There was nothing to do but wait. At some point Christian shuffled over and she stood up and put her arms around him. They stood together, shivering.

  More minutes passed.

  More silence.

  Then from far back inside the house she heard someone call out an order and suddenly the house was buzzing with activity again. The front door to the house opened. The police guard stepped aside to allow the emergency technicians to file out of the house in a ghastly caravan, bearing Nathalie on a stretcher. They whisked her down the porch steps and across the lawn, headed for the ambulance. Eduardo and Roland scrambled to follow, despite the guard’s protests. Antonia took advantage of the opportunity to slip out behind them. She felt a few raindrops hit her head.

  The technicians hoisted Nathalie into the back of the ambulance and climbed in. The female officer followed. Eduardo tried to board with them but the officer closed the doors firmly in his face and the ambulance sped away, lights flashing.

  Antonia found herself pressing her palms together as she had been taught to do as a little girl at St. Paul’s Episcopal Church. When she’d still believed.

  Well, she thought, now’s a good time to start believing again. She bent her head to concentrate and shut her eyes. Please God, she prayed, if you’re there don’t let Nathalie die. Just make her go back to New York. A wave of nausea hit and she felt herself sway.

  “Whoa, Bessie,” a man said in a low, gravelly voice and Antonia felt a warm, strong hand take hold of her upper arm.

  She opened her eyes to see a pair of official-looking rubber soled shoes, their toes pointing in her direction. Her eyes traveled up to see a pair of khakis, a white button-down shirt, a jacket, a tie, a military mustache, a broken nose and a pair of baby-blue eyes set in a homely, familiar face.

  “I know you,” she said. After going so long without talking her voice came out more like a croak. She cleared her throat. “You came about Miles. You’re Detective … I’m sorry …”

  “Morrow. Come on inside, ma’am.” The detective’s tone was matter of fact.

  “What’s happening to Nathalie? How is she?”

  He took her by the elbow and guided her back up the stairs to the porch. He said something in a low voice to the man guarding the front door and the man promptly stepped aside.

  Detective Morrow ushered her into the library and pointed to the leather armchair. “Please sit down, ma’am.” He planted himself on the piano bench, took out a mechanical pencil and a steno pad from inside his jacket, flipped to a clean page, then brought out
a miniature digital recorder; each economical movement strangely comforting. He switched the machine on. Even though they’d previously exchanged contact information, he gave his name, rank, and place of work; asked her to state her name, address, and date of birth; announced the date, time, and Shawna’s address; and then said, simply, “Tell me about it.”

  “Everything happened so quickly. Oh God, what a cliché.” Antonia concentrated on the neat rows of books lining the opposite wall to center herself. She caught sight of one title, the Dali Lama’s The Art of Happiness: A Handbook for Living, which almost caused her to lose it again but she forced herself to breathe in-two-three-four-five, out-two-three-four-five. When she’d calmed down enough to be coherent she said, “Her name’s Nathalie LeFebre.”

  She saw the detective’s hand hover uncertainly over the writing pad so she spelled Nathalie’s last name and he entered it in his notebook.

  “She just moved here. We were dancing, we were having a tango party, and Nathalie fainted so they took her to lie down in Shawna’s bedroom. Shawna Muir owns this house,” she added. Everything was coming out bass-ackwards but she couldn’t help it. “Shawna came running out of the bedroom screaming. She had a shawl, she held it up, and I saw she had blood on her hands. Like Medea,” she added, realizing how inconsequential it sounded. “I’m sorry; when I’m upset I tend to go off on tangents. Was it an accident? It can’t be. I suppose I know that, really. Someone would have said something by now if it were—you know, something like, ‘I’m so sorry but I unintentionally stabbed you with part of my Halloween costume.’ Unless they were afraid they’d get in trouble.” She stopped short. “I’m know I’m babbling, I know.”

  The detective’s cell phone rang. He got it before the third ring. “Yes … I see … Thanks …Yes, looks like it. Give me your notes as soon as you can. Meet you here.”