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

by Lisa Fernow

  In the few hours since Morrow had shared the gruesome results of Nathalie’s autopsy, she’d focused all her energy on the question of who could have struck Nathalie on the dance floor. Nobody could have stabbed her in the back while she was dancing because Roland’s arm would have been in the way. And nobody could have counted on Nathalie staying in one place long enough for a blow to land with any accuracy.

  Shawna would get to the house around seven. Jackson was due at eight for his supposed walk-through. That left sixty minutes for the guilty party to try to get rid of the evidence.

  Soon she’d know who killed Nathalie and who tried to kill Christian.

  The passenger door handle jiggled and she shot up in her seat. She jerked around to find Morrow slipping into the passenger’s seat next to her.

  “I thought I’d find you here,” he said matter-of-factly.

  “If anyone recognizes my car—”

  “They’ll just think you’ve come to get your stuff. I know.”

  “You can’t send me home.”

  “It’s too late for that. Consider yourself deputized.” He settled low into his seat. “Get down.”

  She slumped behind the steering wheel, matching his posture. They sat in silence. The road was well off the main artery so there was little traffic.

  She could just make out the outline of Morrow’s broken nose and his military mustache. In the short time they had known each other his features had become familiar, and this knowledge for some reason gave her comfort.

  Morrow pulled a package of Life Savers from his jacket pocket, unwrapped the foil enough to expose the first one, and offered it to her. She took the mint and popped it in her mouth. Morrow took one for himself. She heard the candy snap as he bit down on it.

  “Why did you ask us about our hobbies?” she eventually asked, watching his face.

  He kept his eyes focused on the house. “I wanted to know who might have knowledge of anatomy.”

  “Eduardo Sanchez paints nudes. Roland can field dress anything.”

  Morrow didn’t react.

  “Bobby’s medical knowledge probably ends with stegosauruses,” she said, but Morrow remained relaxed, unhurried, like a commuter waiting for a train that he knew would come on time, except in this case he was waiting for a person who might not come at all. Antonia could imagine all sorts of ways the plan could go wrong. She couldn’t see how it was possible for him to sit so still.

  “Where’s Detective Jackson?”

  “He’ll be here soon.”

  He waits. I move. He waits. I move. Waiting. Waiting. Only six thirty.

  Her right leg was starting to go to sleep. She stretched and wiggled her toes. “So who did it?”

  “Antonia, I can’t talk about this.”

  “Do you think I can’t take it?”

  “I know what you can handle. Your ex put you in the hospital three times,” he said in his soft, gravelly voice.

  “How—?”

  He shifted in his seat. “Routine background checks. You tried to get a restraining order against him and nobody would give you one. I understand why you don’t trust the police.”

  “It’s nothing personal. You say you investigated us. Did that include Christian?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you find out about what happened the night his parents died?”

  “Yes.”

  Her chest ached like someone had heaved a boulder at it. “Tell me.”

  “Bottom line, he risked his life to protect his mother. His father turned on him. Self-defense. Crime scene photos prove it.”

  “Oh God.” She felt the cool night air rush back into her lungs. “He always said he couldn’t remember.”

  “Trauma does that.”

  She bit into her lip to keep it from trembling, not that Morrow could have seen. “I’ll never be able to make it up to him. And he’s lying in a hospital room while we still don’t know who’s trying to kill him.”

  Morrow grasped her arm. “Hold on.”

  Shawna’s car edged up to the curb, right on time. After a few seconds she alighted from the car and trudged up the walk to her house. She climbed the steps to the front porch, fumbled in her purse and used something, probably her key, to slit open the yellow tape across the front door. She entered the house. A light went on in the front hall, revealing her figure just visible through the living room windows. A table lamp went on in the living room, the light illuminating the length of her arm, her neck and the underside of her chin, leaving her features and the rest of the room in near darkness.

  Morrow bolted up in his seat. He felt for the overhead switch to make sure the interior light stayed off and reached for the handle to the passenger door. He cracked it open and slipped out, stooping to stay out of sight. “Wait here.”

  Antonia had no idea what he’d seen but there was no mistaking the contained urgency in his voice. “I’m coming with you.”

  “No.”

  “You can’t stop me.”

  “Then do what I say.”

  “Okay.” She eased out of the car and pushed the door closed until she heard it latch, her heart thumping wildly.

  He stole across the street and she sprinted after him. They reached the porch almost at the same time and crouched next to one of the rhododendrons.

  She peered through the porch screen, waiting for her eyes to adjust. Her view through the porch into the living room was partly obstructed by the wicker furniture but through the picture window she could see Shawna picking up a pillow and putting it back on the couch. Beyond her, near the arch leading to the dining room, the rest of the house was shrouded in patches of gray and black. One of the larger shadows looked just like a person. When she was young and her mother would put her to bed and turn out the lights she used to test her nerve, staring until her eyes adjusted to the darkness and she could recognize the shadows as bookcases, doors, things she knew were safe.

  The shadow moved.

  She gasped and gripped Morrow’s sleeve.

  He nodded and placed his finger against his lips, signaling her to keep quiet.

  She started for the stairs but Morrow grabbed her belt and pulled her back. “Wait.”

  Antonia watched as the man advanced towards Shawna from behind. It was someone tall. Eduardo and Roland were physically so much alike it could have been either one of them. He must have made a noise because Shawna whipped around. He said something. Antonia couldn’t make out what it was but Shawna shook her head violently and put her hands to her cheeks. He spoke again and Shawna whipped away from him, her face contorted. Antonia watched in helpless silence. Shawna moved away from the window and Antonia finally saw the man clearly, his normally handsome features distorted with fury.

  Eduardo.

  CHAPTER 50

  Ahora, no me conoces

  Now you don’t know me

  ANTONIA STARTED FOR THE FRONT STEPS, again, but Morrow yanked her back and clamped his arms around her.

  “Shhhh,” he whispered.

  “Shawna needs me.”

  “It’s under control.”

  She sank into his arms and he relaxed his hold. She turned back towards the house to see what was happening, aware that he was doing the same.

  Shawna, seated on the couch, was shaking her head. Eduardo stood over her. He handed her a handkerchief. Shawna blew her nose and she raised her head to say something. He nodded and then offered his hand to help her up from the couch.

  Antonia turned to Morrow. “What now?”

  “Follow me,” Morrow said in a low voice. He darted across the front path to the other side of the entrance and crouched behind a bush. She joined him.

  They didn’t have long to wait. Antonia heard the front door open and shut, then a squeak as the porch door opened. She saw Eduardo start down the steps from the porch and when he got to the walk Morrow came up behind him. She realized for the first time that Morrow was carrying a gun.

  “Dr. Sanchez, put your hands where I can see th
em.” The detective’s voice was cool and impersonal.

  Eduardo slowly raised his hands. “It is Detective Morrow, is it not? Your voice is distinctive.” His voice sounded calm but then again, Antonia reminded herself, he’d faced much worse than the Atlanta police.

  “Turn around. Slowly. Antonia, you can come out now.”

  She stepped out from the bushes.

  “So you are here as well,” Eduardo said. “We are making quite a party.”

  Morrow said to Eduardo, “Empty your pockets, please.”

  Eduardo turned towards Morrow, unbuttoned his jacket, slipped it off, and moving with deliberation emptied the contents of his pockets onto the porch steps: a pack of cigarettes, a book of matches from Watershed, a set of Avis rental car keys, a single house key, and an open pack of chewing gum.

  Morrow holstered his gun. “You didn’t leave any belongings that night. You had no reason to be here today.”

  “I had the best of reasons. I came to get justice for Nathalie.”

  Antonia said, “By breaking into Shawna’s house?”

  “Did you think a piece of yellow tape and a locked door would stop me?” Eduardo hitched up his trouser legs at the knees and sat on the top porch step. “None of us had left anything at the house—you took everything. I knew you were setting some sort of trap. I was convinced Shawna had proof of the murderer’s identity and was going to destroy it. I got there first and had started to search but I could find nothing. When she arrived I faced her with my suspicions but she denied everything.”

  “If Shawna’s protecting someone it could only be one person,” Antonia said, sadly.

  “You’re lucky I don’t arrest you right now, Dr. Sanchez.” Morrow looked up and down the block. “You’d better wait with us.” Morrow turned to go back across the street.

  I have to go to her, Antonia thought. Without waiting for permission she ran up the steps, passed through the porch, and opened the front door. The stench of mildew and garbage was overwhelming. “Shawna, it’s me!”

  A listless voice answered from further inside the house. “In here.”

  Antonia found Shawna in the dining room seated in one of the folding chairs against the same wall where Eduardo and Barbara had sat sharing their troubles a week ago. The police had taken their evidence but had left their own traces: gray fingerprint powder coated every surface. “Eduardo told us everything. Are you okay?”

  Shawna flicked her toe at one of the plastic cups that littered the dance area. It stuck to the floor. “Everything is such a terrible mess …,” her voice broke and she began to cry, silently.

  Antonia squeezed her friend’s shoulder. “Why don’t you get me a broom and a dust pan? And a trash bag.”

  While Shawna made her way into the kitchen Antonia surveyed the dining room. What with the dust and the fingerprint powder and the trash from the party it looked like a volcano had erupted. She went over to the CD player and pressed the remote control button, hoping that a little music might bring a little normalcy back. “Milonga de mis Amores” came on, the milonga that had been playing when Bobby and Shawna collided on the dance floor with Nathalie and Roland, and memories of the party and the reconstruction flooded back.

  Nathalie untying her costume shawl from around her hips and wrapping it around her shoulders.

  Shawna, who hated milongas but who’d agreed to dance one with Bobby that night.

  Bobby, stomping around the floor with Shawna during the reconstruction. Shawna, hanging on to his shoulder for support.

  It’s a two-way conversation ... the lead invites ... the follower suggests ...

  Antonia’s whole body went cold. That’s what had bothered her at the reenactment: Shawna and Bobby’s dancing had been much worse than usual. But Shawna was a strong dancer. She never had trouble staying on her axis with Bobby. Shawna knew how to manage him. There was only one explanation.

  “Turn that off.” Shawna spoke sharply. She had reappeared in the doorway, not with a broom, but with the Japanese fan.

  “You back-led Bobby the night Nathalie died,” Antonia said, feeling her stomach churn as the full significance of what she’d said sank in. “He always runs into people on the dance floor. He naturally assumed it was his fault. But it was you. You got him all turned around. So when he thought he was taking a safe rock step he was actually stepping backwards in the line of dance. You engineered the whole collision. And you stabbed Nathalie with your fan.”

  Shawna snapped the fan open and said nothing. There was nothing to say.

  “But how? I held that fan and it was harmless.”

  Shawna pressed the handle with her thumb and Antonia saw something metal spring out of the fan’s base. A switchblade. And suddenly the pieces fell neatly into place.

  “There were two of them,” Antonia said, unable to take her eyes off the fan. “The one you showed the police, and this. But you only bought one off the website.”

  When Shawna spoke her voice was barely above a whisper. “I bought the other with cash on my last trip to Asia.”

  Of course, Antonia thought. Shawna had used her airline status to fly non-revenue to Japan right before the Halloween party. “You didn’t need to mortally wound her, just draw blood so it would look like she’d been killed on the dance floor. Then all you had to do was get her into your bedroom.”

  It had been easy, Antonia realized. Horribly easy. “You got rid of Bobby and Roland and then you planted the kitchen knife in her back. How did you get her to hold still?”

  “I told her if she felt faint to put her head between her legs.”

  The sheer, horrible efficiency of it almost brought Antonia to her knees. “After you stabbed Nathalie you carried the knife out in her shawl and called for help, and then when everyone was running into the bedroom you stuck it in the potted plant.”

  “You seem to know everything,” Shawna said.

  “But then you realized Christian had been in the library—were you afraid he’d seen you? Or did you think he might look at your website and figure out how you did it? Is that what happened?” Antonia could feel the blood rushing to her face, searing her skin, as she realized her best friend had nearly killed the boy she loved most in the world. “Why did you come to the hospital that day? To see if he remembered the attack? Or to finish the job?”

  Shawna began to choke up. “No! I never wanted … not him.”

  The Nathalies of this world don’t count. “But it was okay to take Nathalie’s life? You killed a woman and her unborn baby—and you, a Catholic—for what? Did you think Roland would come back to you?”

  Shawna wailed, “Roland loves me!”

  “Don’t you know you can’t control other people?”

  Shawna lashed out, “That’s rich, coming from you. If you weren’t always trying to run Christian’s life instead of living your own, none of this would have happened.”

  Antonia gasped. “That’s crazy.”

  “Is it?” Shawna’s voice rose and her eyes flashed with anger. “You got Roland to dance with Nathalie to keep her away from Christian. You threw them together. You were so obsessed with protecting Christian you never thought about the consequences to anyone else.”

  Antonia flinched. “That’s not true.”

  “It is. You swore off men and diverted all your love into Christian. You’re mothering him to death.”

  “You’re the one who tried to kill him!” Antonia wanted to cover her ears and run out of the house. Shawna knew her better than anyone. Had been with her through the worst times of her life. Had always been honest with her. Always. Was it true? Would things have turned out differently if she’d left Christian alone instead of introducing him to tango, forcing him to come to class, dragging him to Trasnochando? If he’d never met Nathalie at El Abrazo? If she’d treated Christian like an adult, trusted him, would he have told her where he’d been when Nathalie died? Had everything she’d done to protect Christian backfired?

  Shawna closed the fan. Her shoulders
slumped. The fight had gone out of her. “What are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know.” Antonia stopped. She really didn’t know.

  What would happen if she said nothing? Shawna could turn herself in with dignity. Or she could run. Slip out the back door and run. And Morrow would catch her. Either way, Christian was safe.

  But what about Morrow? They were partners. He trusted her. If she let Shawna go he’d never speak to her again.

  Had she nearly mothered Christian to death?

  Antonia finally said, “Shawna, it’s your life. You decide.”

  CHAPTER 51

  Justice

  ANTONIA MANAGED TO MAKE IT down the front steps and back across the street to the stakeout without her knees buckling out from under her. She found Morrow and Eduardo waiting outside the car.

  Morrow said, “What’s going on?”

  “She asked me to leave. Everything’s okay,” she lied feeling lousy about it, hoping her expression wouldn’t give her away.

  They settled back in her Audi, Morrow and herself in the front, Eduardo in the back. As they waited she replayed her decision in her mind again and again and decided again and again to let Shawna do whatever it was she chose to do. It had to be her decision.

  Eight o’clock came and went. No sign of Detective Jackson.

  “Where’s your partner?” she finally asked Morrow.

  “Watching the back of the house.”

  So if Shawna decided to run Jackson would surely see her. What was Shawna doing? Praying? Waiting for them to come back?

  Who did Morrow think was coming to the house? She felt sick holding out, knowing he was waiting for nobody.

  Eduardo leant forward from the back seat. “It’s almost eight thirty. Nobody’s coming.” She heard the tension in his voice.

  Morrow nodded. “Let’s go.”

  They climbed out of the car and Morrow led them across the street, up the stairs, through the porch, and into the house.

  Their footsteps echoed on the hardwood entryway.