by Lisa Fernow
Guest shook hands with Morrow as Sanchez had done. His palm felt slightly damp. “It was good of you to come personally.”
Does he think I’m his protection? Morrow wondered. He wouldn’t put it past Blakeley to have promised something along those lines. Didn’t matter. She’d delivered.
With all the main players present and accounted for, Morrow judged it time to join the party. Blakeley’s eyes met his. “Just prop the door, Detective Morrow. I’ll be right with you.”
He found his way back to the living room, took his place on the ledge with his back to the fireplace and surveyed the scene.
The area was properly set up and sequenced. The song that had played the night of the murder was loaded into the CD player, ready for his cue. As expected, the dancers had adjusted to his presence. About fifteen couples were tangoing, if that was the right term. He hoped he wasn’t wasting his time watching a bunch of tango enthusiasts dancing “one body, four legs.” The only thing missing was his amped-up hostess who was supposed to be at his side providing color commentary. She’d deserted her post.
The music abruptly stopped.
Ting-ting, ting-ting. Ting-ting-ting-ting.
The room fell quiet. The dancers stopped and backed away to reveal Blakeley standing at the entrance to the kitchen holding a fork in one hand and a water goblet in the other. She stepped to the center of the room.
“Thank you all for coming,” she said, studiously avoiding his eyes. “Most of you know one of our dancers, Nathalie LeFebre, was tragically killed the other night. I want to introduce Detective Morrow who is working on Nathalie’s case.” She pointed her fork at him and everyone turned his way. “I invited him tonight so he could get a better feeling for what happened the night she, uh, died. I know all of us would like to help in any way we can. So I’ll turn it over to Detective …” At this point she looked straight at him and he saw a flash of impertinence in her expression. “… Morrow, who will ask for your help in reenacting some of the critical moments of that night.”
Goddamn. Blakeley was hijacking the show.
CHAPTER 37
Embellishment
A follower’s improvised flourishes
DETECTIVE S-FOR-SECRETIVE MORROW will just have to understand, Antonia thought. Nobody will dance naturally until they think he got what he came for.
She turned the floor over to Detective Morrow and went to stand with Shawna. The night air from the open French doors felt cool against her back. She hadn’t danced yet and she was already sweating.
Morrow seemed at ease in his compact body, hands clasped behind his back, holding himself neither too stiffly nor too loosely. He addressed the group with the authority of a man accustomed to commanding crowds. “I want to thank Ms. Blakeley …” he made eye contact, lingering a little longer than was necessary, and she felt her face tingle in response, “… who kindly offered me this opportunity to see you in an unofficial setting.”
Shawna hissed in her ear, “Did you two plan this?”
“Not exactly,” she muttered back.
The dancers, in various states of apprehension, waited. Even though she knew what Morrow was going to do the anticipation was still torture. Christian might not be Morrow’s top suspect but he was still on the list.
“As you know, someone stabbed Nathalie LeFebre at Shawna Muir’s Halloween party.”
The dancers stirred with prurient excitement at the matter-of-fact opening. It was all well and good for them. It wasn’t their loved one under suspicion. She glanced at Christian to see how he was reacting and found him picking at the molding of the other set of French doors, probably wishing he were home in front of the computer. A good sign.
“I want to establish the circumstances leading up to her death. If those of you who were at the party that night would help me reconstruct your movements on the dance floor it will eliminate some of the loose ends in this case.”
Barbara frowned at Morrow. “What exactly are you trying to establish? Nathalie died in the bedroom.”
Eduardo had folded his arms over his chest and it was hard to tell if his pose was a sign of defensiveness or just his proud Argentine way. “Is this a normal procedure in America?”
“Only in Hollywood,” Morrow replied cheerfully which prompted a nervous laugh from the crowd. “People have been very helpful explaining what they were doing but I have to admit I couldn’t visualize it. I don’t know anything about tango but I can see it’s a sophisticated and beautiful dance.”
It was a smart thing to say whether he believed it or not. The dancers, being preconditioned to expect admiration for their favorite passion, seemed to collectively exhale.
“If those of you who weren’t at the party would excuse us,” Morrow continued, “We need the floor for a few minutes. You’re free to use the rest of the house.”
“There’s food in the dining room,” Antonia said. It took a few minutes for the dancers to collect their drinks and file out, some onto the deck to angle for a good view of the proceedings, others to the dining room to freshen up their drinks. The room finally cleared leaving Morrow, Roland, Shawna, Bobby, Barbara, Eduardo, Christian, and herself.
Morrow said, “Let’s see if we can reconstruct where you all were beginning from just before the collision on the dance floor, up to the point when Nathalie was taken to Shawna’s room. Ms. Blakeley, will you stand in for Nathalie please?” Morrow looked her up and down, inspecting her. “No, on second thought, you’re too short. Can you call for a volunteer who stands five foot seven and dances about as well as Nathalie did?”
“Nathalie used to wear three inch heels,” she corrected him. “You’re going to need someone taller than that.”
Roland had edged so far from the center of the room he was practically standing in the kitchen. “Is this necessary? I’m sure we all want to help but this does bring back unhappy memories for people.”
Shawna said, “Don’t you want to see your fiancée’s murderer caught?” Antonia was pleased to hear the sting in Shawna’s voice; maybe she was truly done with the Charming Child.
Morrow reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a notepad, and consulted it. “I’d like to establish who the intended victim was and I can’t do that without your standing up for yourself.”
Pun intended. Antonia stepped out onto the deck and found the visiting instructor from Augusta. Her dance was nothing like Nathalie’s but in her heels she’d be almost the same height and that was more important.
When she returned she found Morrow had shifted Barbara and Eduardo to the built-in couch which was apparently substituting for the line of chairs in Shawna’s dining room.
Barbara said to Eduardo, “Do you remember where I was? I feel like such an idiot to have gotten so drunk.”
“You were right here with me,” Eduardo said.
“Those of you who were dancing may take your positions,” Morrow announced.
Bobby and Shawna and Roland gathered in the center of the floor. The detective nodded to Nathalie’s stand-in who bit her lips and refastened her barrettes to pull her hair away from her face. She took her place facing Roland. She stood too far away, evidently used to open style. Roland corrected her stance and drew her closer.
Shawna draped her left arm around Bobby’s shoulders. “Detective Morrow, I normally shut my eyes while I dance. Should I do so, now?”
“Go ahead.”
Bobby put his right arm around Shawna and took her right hand in his left. “I believe I was still wearing my sign but not the ice tray.”
“That’s right,” Shawna agreed. “We danced close embrace so it couldn’t have been there.”
Bobby pulled away. “You had your fan.”
Shawna opened her eyes. “Did I?”
Bobby twisted around to ask Morrow, “Do you need it?”
“We want to get the details as close as we can.”
“I’m sorry,” Shawna said, “It’s back at the house.”
“Then we’ll need a
substitute.”
How Morrow loves minutiae, Antonia thought. “How about a wooden spoon? It’s about the same size.”
“That’ll do,” Morrow said.
“I’ll get one,” Shawna said and ducked into the kitchen.
“Mr. Cookerly?”
Christian sprang to attention. “Yes sir.”
“We’re not sure whether you were in the dining room or the library. Do you remember which it was?” Morrow slipped the question in so easily Antonia didn’t see it coming but Christian just shrugged, and he didn’t look worried, which was a good sign. “So perhaps you could help me. Can that wristwatch of yours count seconds?”
Christian nodded brightly.
Morrow said, “Good, you can time us. Wait for my signal.”
Christian was acting almost human under Morrow’s influence. Was it a guy thing? Shawna returned with a wooden spoon and rejoined Bobby. Antonia went to the CD player and started “Milonga de mis Amores”. The vigorous piano and bandoneon duet brought back shards of disturbing memories: her fight with Christian—Shawna screaming—Nathalie gasping for air, terrified, blowing a bright red, fatal bubble—
“I can’t do this,” Roland said, looking up at the ceiling and blinking. For once he seemed genuinely upset.
“Cut the music,” Morrow said.
She turned down the volume.
Morrow went to speak to Roland. She couldn’t hear their conversation but Roland eventually nodded.
“We were circling the room,” Roland said in a calmer voice, “like this, counterclockwise. For your benefit, Detective Morrow, that’s the direction all tango dancers circulate. I don’t remember my exact steps but it would have been something like this.” Antonia watched him lead Nathalie’s stand-in in a simple rhythmic walk: slow, slow, quick-quick, slow, quick-quick, slow, switching from parallel to cross-feet and back, and throwing in an occasional traspie. “We passed Bobby and Shawna at least once.”
Eduardo said, “Bobby, you drifted into the middle of the floor at one point, I believe.”
“Did I?” Bobby felt for his bald spot and his fingers automatically fished for the hairs he still combed over. “No, that was earlier. I was trying to avoid Christian and Antonia. They left and I had more room again so I led Shawna back to the line of dance.”
Antonia explained to Morrow, “That’s the path everyone follows, or should be following, when they’re dancing.”
“Got it,” he said. “Now, Professor, you and Shawna bumped into Nathalie and Roland, here. Without actually hitting them can you show me exactly how it happened?”
Antonia concentrated on her breathing to steady her heart which was beating out its own little milonga in her chest.
“Roland and Nathalie were ahead of us,” Bobby said.
Morrow asked, “So at that point you were facing the couple?”
“Yes. I remember Roland was leading a lot of molinetes—grapevines—basically that’s a series of steps where the woman circles around the man. They’re harder to do in a milonga since the beat is faster. I was waiting for them to advance in the line of dance so I started a rock step.”
“That’s a three-point turn if you’re a car,” Antonia said to Morrow. “You use it to rotate in place.”
“Maybe I stepped too close to Roland and Nathalie.” Bobby blushed. “But somehow I ended up going backwards in the line of dance. Like this.”
This is it, Antonia thought.
Bobby and Shawna executed their part in slow motion, trying various possibilities for how he could have ended up facing the wrong way, but he kept looking at his feet, which took his weight too far forward. Shawna clutched his shoulder and did her best to stay on her axis. Roland, meanwhile, led Nathalie’s stand-in in a series of molinetes. She had a tendency to revert to open style so each sequence came out more as wobbly ellipses.
“I backed into Nathalie.” Bobby reversed into Nathalie’s stand-in to show how the couples had most likely collided. “Then I lost my balance and stepped on Shawna’s instep, like this.”
Shawna recoiled. “Don’t.” The reenactment was getting to her, too.
“I won’t.” Bobby demonstrated but stopped short of putting the weight of his foot on Shawna’s.
Morrow turned to Christian. “How long did that take, son?”
“Twelve seconds, sir.”
“So Ms. Blakeley, how long would that have taken in real time?”
“Three or four, maybe.”
Roland said, “Bobby, why didn’t you just wait for us to move out of the space?”
Bobby blinked. “Well, actually, I’d closed my eyes so I didn’t realize you were still there.”
Roland raised his voice. “What the hell did you do that for?”
Oh for heaven’s sake, Antonia thought, I told him to do that at a practica, not on the social floor.
Bobby seemed to shrink into his shoes. “I’m sorry. I told you it was my fault.”
“Dr. Sanchez,” Morrow said, “did you happen to see the actual moment of collision that night?”
Eduardo shook his head. “No, unfortunately I did not. I was attending to Barbara. As we were seated so close to the dancers the angle would have made it difficult to see much in any case. I recall Bobby’s feet were directly in my line of sight. His footwork was erratic; he was obviously having trouble staying balanced.”
“My eyes were closed, too, so I can’t help you either, I’m afraid,” Shawna said.
Nobody could clear Christian, Antonia realized. The reenactment had been a huge mistake.
Morrow turned to a fresh page in his notebook and addressed Eduardo. “How close were you to the couple, exactly?”
Eduardo crossed one leg over his knee and closed his eyes. “Less than a meter.”
“Near enough to touch them?”
“That close, certainly.”
Morrow said, “Professor Glass, your floor plan placed Eduardo and Barbara in the corner, much farther away from the action. Care to amend that?”
Bobby looked down at his feet. “I … I may possibly have been mistaken.”
Morrow said, “Dr. Sanchez, did you or Barbara get up from your seats at any point?”
“No. I do not believe so.”
“I don’t remember,” Barbara said. “I’m sorry.”
“Would you mind repeating your movements again please, all?” Morrow raised his hand to signal the dancers. “Ms. Blakeley. Ms. Blakeley? Start the music again, please. Christian, start timing … now.”
The dancers dutifully stumbled through. Antonia felt a tingling sensation spreading up the back of her neck. She couldn’t put her finger on it, the reason for the tingling, but something about the dancers’ movements didn’t feel right. It made her crazy when her subconscious got out ahead of her.
CHAPTER 38
Dumb Show
MORROW CLOSED HIS NOTEBOOK. “Thank you very much. You have been very helpful. Ms. Blakeley, I’ll take that drink now.”
The reenactment had failed in its main objective but at least he’d established some key facts. Muir, Glass, Guest, and Wolfe were probably out of the running for the attack. Muir had had her hands full, in every sense, with Glass. Guest had been similarly occupied with Nathalie. Barbara Wolfe couldn’t have lashed out without being spotted by Sanchez but she was so drunk she couldn’t provide him with an alibi. Sanchez’ own admission, along with Wolfe’s lipstick-stained glass, put him within striking range. That left Sanchez and Cookerly as the most likely suspects.
The theatrical reconstruction had upped the emotional ante with the players, just as he’d hoped. With luck someone might make a mistake. As it turned out Blakeley had shown good instincts to call for the reenactment when she had but he wasn’t going to let her know that.
But the original problem remained. He still couldn’t see how it had been done.
“Don’t be mad, Detective.” Blakeley said, mistaking his silence for displeasure. “I just saved you a lot of trouble.”
“T
ell the others they can come in.” He took his jacket off and tossed it onto the couch. He rolled up his shirtsleeves and took a seat on the ledge. Blakeley went to the French doors and called the nonparticipating dancers back. She put on a fresh CD, something bright and cheerful that sounded like a polka, so it was probably another milonga. She disappeared into the dining room briefly and returned with two generous pours of wine.
She sat down on the ledge next to him and offered him a glass. “I think we earned this,” she said. “Silver Oak cabernet. Personally stomped by Roland. Cheers.” She clinked her glass against his.
The wine was good. “Next time you try to commandeer my investigation,” he said, only partly kidding, “I’ll handcuff you to the stairs.”
“You can’t—”
“I know. Your stairs don’t have banisters.”
He watched Guest lead Shawna Muir to the dance floor. They faced off. Guest’s right arm circled her back, his fingers slipping out of sight. Muir stood several inches shorter so instead of placing her right cheek against his she turned her head to the right so her face brushed his chest.
Blakeley nudged his arm. “What are you looking at, if it’s not classified information?”
“I can’t see Guest’s right hand. Does he hold all his partners like that?”
“It depends on the anatomy. With Shawna, Roland can get his arm almost all the way around, but with a larger woman, or if he’s dancing open style, his hand might only reach to the middle of her back. Sometimes when I dance with him he sort of tucks me under his arm like a football and uses his fingers to guide me into a turn. He’s not supposed to do that, of course. You totally lose your connection.”
“Doesn’t look like he’s carrying a football.”
“I only mean that’s how it feels to me. The man should hold the woman like he’s placing his right hand over his own heart. That’s what one of my favorite teachers used to say.” She sighed. “But he’s dead now, never mind.”
Placing his hand over his heart. Hold the phone; she could be on to something.
