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

by Lisa Fernow

  The witness doth protest too much, Morrow thought, but that didn’t necessarily make him a killer.

  “Shawna came running though the kitchen, screaming. When I went back to the bedroom I saw poor Nathalie was in distress and told Antonia to call 9-1-1.”

  Blakeley said she’d asked Guest to call. Check that with the other witnesses. “When did you first notice Nathalie was feeling ill?”

  “Shortly after we were hit on the dance floor.”

  Morrow’s eyes strayed towards the welts on Guest’s cheek. “Hit? What happened exactly?”

  “We were doing a milonga. A type of tango. Bobby and Shawna slammed into us and Nathalie and I bumped our heads together. It was all Bobby’s fault. I wouldn’t say this publicly but his floor craft is terrible and he has no sense of balance. He’s always—” Guest seemed to realize he’d strayed from his script. “What a tragedy. I can’t believe it’s not a terrible mistake of some kind.”

  Morrow intentionally blunted his answer. “I’m afraid not. Somebody stabbed her in the back.”

  “Nobody here would have wanted to hurt Nathalie. Barbara went after her earlier, sure, but that’s women for you.”

  They were interrupted by a knock at the door. Officer Sevedra poked her head in to let him know she’d finished photographing the other witnesses. Morrow motioned her into the library and invited Guest to stand. “We just need a couple shots, sir.”

  Guest rose to his feet. “That’s red wine on my shirt, by the way.”

  While Sevedra adjusted the lens of her camera, Morrow looked more closely at Guest’s shirtfront, and then at his matador’s jacket. Part way up the inside of the left sleeve he found a discoloration. “There’s a stain on your sleeve, too. Looks like blood. How do you account for that?”

  Guest looked at his arm as if it belonged to someone else. “I … I don’t know.”

  If Guest hadn’t been alone with Nathalie LeFebre in the bedroom there were only two ways he could have gotten her blood on his sleeve, Morrow calculated. He either touched Nathalie after Shawna Muir found her bleeding out in the bedroom or before he and the others brought Nathalie to the bedroom. “You said you went to the kitchen for ice. Did you take it back to the bedroom?”

  Guest’s eyelids fluttered. “Yes. Of course. I must have touched Nathalie then. Trying to help her.”

  If that’s true he should also have blood on his fingers. “Hold out your hands, please, sir.”

  “Should I be calling for my lawyer?” Guest kept his tone light but the delivery didn’t quite come off.

  “You’re welcome to, sir, but it’s nearly four in the morning.”

  “Well.” Guest forced a laugh. “An innocent man has nothing to fear.”

  Morrow examined the well-groomed nails carefully without touching them. They looked clean but he signaled Sevedra to photograph them again, anyhow. “It’s been a tough year for you,” he said casually. “Losing both your fiancée and your business partner.”

  Guest barely suppressed his double take.

  11/1. 0415. Eduardo Sanchez Jaury.

  Not only had Eduardo Sanchez Jaury magically appeared in Atlanta but Morrow realized he’d actually seen him before, at the tango dance at El Abrazo back in July, when he’d been following Roland Guest. Sanchez had fought with Guest over a spectacular-looking blonde and dragged her off the dance floor.

  “Antonia told us Nathalie died.” Sorrow had overwritten the laugh lines in Sanchez’ face but the Argentine seemed in command of his emotions.

  “I’m afraid so, sir,” Morrow answered, mentally cursing the officer who was supposed to be keeping the witnesses from talking to each other.

  “I feared as much. We must find out who did this.” Sanchez pushed up the sleeves of his lightweight wool sweater. They were stiff with blood. His hands and forearms were also stained. Morrow remembered Blakeley saying she’d turned the first-aid effort over to him.

  Morrow asked him to give his version of events.

  “I did not see how Nathalie came to bump her forehead as I was occupied with Barbara, but I heard Roberto—Bobby Glass—Shawna’s partner—apologize several times so I assume he was the cause. Nathalie and Roland came over to sit down. A fresh tanda began and Barbara asked me to dance. I agreed, against my better judgment.”

  “Why was that, sir?”

  Sanchez hesitated. “She was borracha. Drunk. And upset. However, I thought it might distract her, and to be quite honest I did not wish to be anywhere near Roland. The floor was empty so the only risk was to us. About halfway through the song we heard a woman cry out in distress and a few seconds later Shawna stumbled in, clearly hysterical. We entered the bedroom and found poor Nathalie unconscious. Antonia and I tried to revive her.” Sanchez closed his eyes for a moment. “Antonia told Roland to call 9-1-1 and that malevo just stood in the doorway holding a dishtowel, like some stupid peasant.”

  Morrow didn’t know what a malevo was but judging from Sanchez’ tone it obviously meant something along the lines of “asshole.” “Roland Guest didn’t come into the bedroom? You’re sure?”

  “Absolutely. I passed him in the kitchen on the way in to the bedroom and my memory on this is very clear.”

  “How long was it from when you got to the bedroom to when Shawna came in with the first-aid kit?”

  “An eternity,” Sanchez said, poetically but imprecisely. “By that time everyone else had also entered the bedroom. I remember because I was upset at the invasion of Nathalie’s privacy.”

  “You seem to take a particular interest in Nathalie. Why?”

  Sanchez’ expression hardened but gradually his proud face relaxed. “I loved her once.”

  “I thought she was engaged to Roland Guest.”

  “That pirate.” Sanchez swallowed, hard and turned away. “I brought Nathalie to Atlanta for Trasnochando, a tango festival, in August. We met Roland and some other friends at a milonga at a local nightclub called El Abrazo. I introduced them and he seduced her right beneath my nose.”

  Sonofabitch. The blonde had to have been Nathalie LeFebre. He’d seen the victim, alive.

  “You find that surprising?”

  Morrow realized the psychologist had caught him out. “I’m not supposed to have an opinion,” he answered, hoping he’d deflected the question. “Please go on.”

  “Not long after that Nathalie moved to Atlanta and the passion went out of her letters. I wanted to know why so I came to see for myself.”

  “How did you hear about the party?”

  Sanchez hesitated a little too long. “I usually receive announcements for tango events in Atlanta.”

  “How about this time? Who told you?”

  “If I were protecting someone would you really expect me to volunteer that fact?”

  Morrow reminded himself that Sanchez had survived a government-sponsored war against its own citizens. “In America we don’t arrest people without evidence.”

  The psychoanalyst stared at him with aristocratic directness. “You want me to trust you.”

  “Nope. Just help.”

  The laugh lines around Sanchez’ eyes reappeared for a nanosecond. “I have no choice. Your associate has confiscated my passport. In any case I will not leave until I see justice for my Nathalie.”

  Morrow was finding it hard to square the different versions of Eduardo Sanchez Jaury. Cultured aristocrat – deadly Montonero – avenging lover. “Then help me do my job. Did anyone know you would be here tonight?”

  “I told no one I was coming.”

  “Were people surprised to see you?”

  “Some certainly were,” the psychoanalyst replied with dry understatement. “I arrived just as the couple announced their engagement.”

  “Really? How did that make you feel?”

  “Now you sound like a member of my profession. I wouldn’t be human if I hadn’t felt like killing them, yes—for a moment. But I have seen too much useless death in my time. As I imagine you have, as well. You were in the
military? Active duty?”

  “I served my country, yes.”

  “Officer?”

  “Mustang. Gunnery sergeant. But I got picked for Officer Candidate School and ended up as a second lieutenant.”

  “That must be unusual. Did you have some special skill?”

  Morrow shrugged. “Ducking.”

  A hint of a smile reappeared on Sanchez’ face. “If I had wanted Nathalie dead I would never have killed her in such a cowardly fashion. Stabbing someone in the back is more Roland’s style.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Roland is a moral and physical coward. He would never risk a confrontation. He would choose the indirect way wherever possible to achieve his ends. However, I can think of no reason for him to kill his fiancée.”

  CHAPTER 26

  Secondary Players

  11/1. 0430. Robert (Bobby) Glass.

  “I’M RESPONSIBLE. ENTIRELY.” Bobby Glass had refused the offer of a chair, instead choosing to ping-pong around the library. “Odd it happened when it did. I had the sense I was getting the hang of things.”

  “Roland’s an excellent navigator. Gives me a wide berth usually so I was surprised to run into them. There was plenty of room when we started. It was only Roland and Nathalie, Christian and Antonia, and Shawna and myself. Eduardo and Barbara were sitting out. They looked like they were having a very lively conversation, although my vision is a little hazy, not having my specs on at the time.” Glass directed his last comment to the bookcase.

  “Is that when you and Shawna ran into the couple?”

  A flush appeared on Glass’ face. “My eyes were closed at the actual moment of impact, I’m afraid. I stepped on Shawna’s foot.”

  “What happened next?”

  “I offered to help her.” Glass scratched his ear which had also turned pink. “She didn’t want me. She left the room. Roland took Nathalie to one of the chairs along the South wall, sat next to her, and put his arm around her.”

  “Which side did he sit on?”

  Glass pantomimed Roland’s actions, trying out both arms. “Her right. Shawna came back wearing her bedroom slippers. Then a few minutes later I noticed Roland signaling. Nathalie wasn’t feeling well so we took her to Shawna’s bedroom for a lie-down. I wasn’t needed so I went back to the dining room and watched Barbara dance with Eduardo. It was just the three of us by that point.” Glass cleared his throat. “Then Shawna came back in, crying for help, carrying something pressed to her chest, I’m not sure what it was. Everybody else ran to her bedroom.”

  “You didn’t?”

  “I went to the library to get my glasses. By the time I made it to the bedroom everyone else was there.”

  “What about Roland Guest?”

  “Roland made it as far as the threshold of the bedroom.”

  Guest lied, Morrow thought. Both Sanchez and Glass stated Guest never reentered the bedroom. The blood on his sleeve must have been acquired before Nathalie was taken there. She was attacked in the dining room. Maybe the killer took advantage of Bobby Glass’ mishap on the dance floor. “Could you take me through where everyone was in the dining room at the moment of your collision with Nathalie?”

  Glass asked, “I’ll have to think. Wouldn’t want to get it wrong. Would it help if I made you a map and marked where everybody was? I do it all the time for fossils on field trips.”

  What the hell, it couldn’t hurt.

  “The only difference is that people move about more, naturally.”

  ***

  11/1. 0512. Christian Cookerly.

  The birds were chattering outside—another lost night. Christian Cookerly slumped in the leather chair, shoulders hunched, arms and legs completely hidden by his wizard’s costume. “I told you I don’t remember.”

  Morrow had been trying without much success to get Cookerly to detail his movements leading up to the discovery of Nathalie LeFebre in the bedroom. Young adults were usually too wrapped up in themselves to notice much and this one was no exception.

  “Where were you when Bobby and Shawna ran into Roland and Nathalie on the dance floor?”

  “I dunno.” Cookerly managed to sound both forlorn and peevish. “Either the dining room or the library, I guess.”

  “Did you see their collision?”

  Cookerly shrugged. “I don’t remember. Bobby runs into people all the time.”

  “Do you remember where you were when Shawna came to the dining room and called out for help?”

  “I really didn’t notice.”

  “Why not? Something particular on your mind?”

  Cookerly shrank further in his seat.

  “Did you go to Shawna’s bedroom with everyone else, when they were trying to help her?”

  Cookerly nodded.

  “How did you get there? I don’t mean running or walking. Which way did you come?”

  “Through the library, I think.”

  So Cookerly was probably in the library when Shawna Muir sounded the alarm. “What were you doing there?”

  Christian Cookerly looked away. “I don’t remember.”

  “How well did you know Nathalie LeFebre? Any personal connection with her?”

  “No.” Cookerly crossed one leg under the tent of his costume and corkscrewed his body like he wanted to run away.

  Not another one. “Is my asking about your relationship with Nathalie upsetting you?”

  “Of course I’m upset. She’s dead.”

  “Son.” Morrow smiled to take the sting out of the rebuke he was about to deliver. “You’re hiding something. It may have nothing to do with this business. If that’s the case I’ll be glad to forget it, whatever it is.”

  Cookerly thrust out his lower lip.

  The silence grew. Morrow considered his options. He had a basic account of Cookerly’s movements which was the most important evidence. And they still had the house to process. “All right. That’s all for now. But consider the consequences if you withhold evidence.” He gave Cookerly his card. “Do some remembering.”

  ***

  11/1. 0602. Barbara Wolfe.

  The interview with Barbara Wolfe had been short but not sweet. Once Morrow let her know Roland Guest had outed her for attacking Nathalie early in the evening she couldn’t wait to get in with her version which primarily consisted of cataloging what a lying, two-faced rat Roland was. After dousing Guest with a glass of wine and taking a chunk out of his face she’d gotten shitfaced, and from that point on her testimony was pretty useless.

  ***

  The preliminary interviews completed, Morrow and Jackson printed and searched the witnesses, enlisting Sevedra’s help with the women. Jackson took everyone’s costumes into evidence, including their dance shoes, and supervised Shawna Muir while she found outerwear for the guests to go home in. Usual drill.

  As anticipated, there was enough blood on everybody to stage Macbeth twice over. Everyone except Guest had a good reason for it to be there. Guest still had no story for how the sleeve of his matador’s jacket had come to have blood on it. His breeches were clean. Having no pockets in his costume he’d stowed his car keys, driver’s license, a pair of Cole Haan loafers, and a pack of mouthwash strips in a black drawstring bag stamped with a shoe store’s address in Argentina.

  The front of Blakeley’s bedsheet toga was stained from when she’d administered first aid to the dead woman. Streaks down the front of her costume showed where she’d wiped her hands. An examination of her shoes proved she’d stepped in Nathalie’s blood at one point. She’d come to the party with her keys, driver’s license and a pair of flip-flops, also in a drawstring shoe bag. Hers was red satin.

  Muir also had traces of blood on her hands which was to be expected since she’d found Nathalie LeFebre and had clutched the dead woman’s shawl to her chest. The sleeves and front of her yukata and hanhaba were stained, as were her house slippers.

  Cookerly’s wizard’s robe was smeared but he explained Blakeley had hugged him so it could we
ll have transferred from her costume. Blakeley had brought him to the party and he had nothing on him but the key to his apartment in the pocket of his jeans.

  Wolfe’s hands showed damage to her right index, middle, and ring fingernail polish, probably from clawing Guest’s mug. In addition to a silver satin shoe bag which contained a pair of hiking sandals she’d carried a beaded purse containing keys, license, forty-five dollars in cash, a tube of lipstick, her cell phone, and a pack of condoms.

  Sanchez’ forearms, hands, sweater, pants, and shoes were all marked from when he’d tried to revive Nathalie. The psychologist had carried a billfold, a pack of Dunhill cigarettes, a gold lighter, Avis rental car keys, and his hotel key card. No costume. No dance shoes.

  Glass, while sweat-soaked, was clean, criminally-speaking. In addition to the shark’s tooth his pockets contained keys, wallet, cell phone, printed directions to Shawna Muir’s house, and a Swiss army knife. His shoe bag contained a pair of Top-Siders.

  The last thing to do before releasing the witnesses was to conduct a quick survey of the house in case they found evidence requiring them to hold anyone.

  Sevedra had gone back to the kitchen. Morrow found her photographing Nathalie LeFebre’s shawl, whistling country music tunes as she often did when working. Tonight’s selection was “I Walk the Line”. He signaled for Jackson to join them.

  Sevedra used a pencil to lift up a section of the cloth which had been matted into a ball, its black and golden threads stiff with congealed blood. “This fabric has been slashed.”

  Morrow nodded and said to Jackson, “What does this tell you?”

  “That the victim was wearing it at the time of her decease,” Jackson suggested with more literal-mindedness than insight. Morrow glanced at Sevedra, warning her to keep a straight face. This was what they called a teaching moment.

  “What else?”

  Jackson peered at the shawl through a magnifying lens and the lights went, metaphorically, on. “The cut looks rough. Could have been done by the knife we found.”