family in Argentina, Detective Lissy had said, but I needed to tell his dance partners, our staff and students, our lawyer and accountant, the bank, the Capitol Festival and the Blackpool organizers… I drew up a list and stared at it, weary before I started. Did I need to write an obituary? What about funeral arrangements? I supposed his family would take his body back to Buenos Aires. Well, then, a memorial service?
My mind slid away from the dreary list and latched on to the subject that had been uppermost since the detectives left me last night: Who killed Rafe? Who hated him enough to shoot him to death? Leon Hall, obviously. My list ended there. I couldn’t think of any dance student or partner who would want Rafe dead. Okay, maybe Sawyer if Rafe really did get Taryn pregnant. I flipped through a mental Rolodex of the people Rafe saw regularly. Maurice and Rafe got along fine. There were professional rivalries, of course, and dancers who resented Rafe’s success. A British dancer came to mind. The flamboyant newcomer had lost the American Smooth Champion title to Rafe last year and had tried to get him disqualified. But as far as I knew, he was in England, running a studio in Manchester.
Sherry Indrebo? She’d been livid when Rafe stood her up yesterday. But shooting him wasn’t going to help her win a dance championship. Like me, she was now up the creek without a partner. I realized that I didn’t know much about Rafe’s private life. Even before we split up, our time together had revolved around the studio and dance competitions; I’d only met one friend of his, a schoolmate from Rafe’s high school days who was in D.C. on business. I’d never met his father-his mom was dead-or other family members. We had broken up two weeks before a planned trip to Argentina to introduce me to his family.
A knock on the outside door made me jump. I got up to answer it, figuring it was a cop in response to Solange’s phone call. I was right. Not Detective Lissy, thank goodness. I told the officer about Leon Hall’s visit and threats. “I got the impression he didn’t know Rafe was dead,” I finished, wanting to be fair, even though it would be nice if the police had a suspect besides yours truly.
“We’ll look into it, ma’am,” was all the officer said before tucking his notebook away and departing.
My phone rang as I was about to go downstairs and shower so I detoured into the office to answer with a less sprightly “Graysin Motion” than I usually managed.
“Thank God you’re not dead,” Danielle’s voice greeted me. “Don’t ever scare me like that again!”
“What are you talking about?” Just hearing my sister’s voice cheered me up.
“The article in today’s paper.” The rustle of newspaper pages crackled over the phone. “ ‘Alexandria police report the discovery of a body at an Old Town dance studio last evening. Name is being withheld pending notification of next of kin. Police are treating the case as a homicide.’ I know it was silly to jump to the conclusion that the article was referring to Graysin Motion-there are several dance schools in Alexandria. Maybe they’re referring to that Li’l Twinkletoes place?”
“It’s us,” I said. “I mean, they’re talking about Graysin Motion. Someone shot Rafe last night.”
“Get out! Rafe? Who-? When-? I’m on my way over there.” The line went dead.
I had showered and dressed in an ankle-length patio dress of fuchsia and blush pink and cream-I don’t own anything somber-looking-by the time Danielle
When I had finished, she gave me another hug. “Are you all right?”
“Sure,” I said with a grimace, “for a woman who’s about to be locked up for life. Or for so long that my quickstep will be more of a quickshuffle and I’ll need a walker when I try to rumba.”
“That’s not going to happen,” Danielle said decisively. “Look, I’ve got to get to work. I called to tell my boss I had car trouble, but I’ve got a meeting I can’t miss at ten. Will you be okay? I’ll come back this evening. I’ll even bring dinner.”
“Thanks,” I said, grateful for her caring.
After she left, I made a list of people who needed to know about Rafe’s death and picked up the phone. I called Maurice and listened to his exclamations of shock, sorrow, and concern. I told him classes would resume tomorrow and he sounded relieved. Maurice must need the money, I thought as I hung up. I e-mailed several others, including ballroom dance organizations like Dance Visions and American Dancesport, and our students. Staring at the final name on my list, Sherry Indrebo, I reluctantly decided that she deserved a call rather than an e-mail. I found a number for her congressional office and dialed. The officious-sounding man who answered refused to put me through, saying that the congresswoman was headed to the floor for a vote. Even when I explained that I was calling about a death, he refused to give me her cell phone number or patch me through to her. His tone of voice made it clear he considered me a nuisance caller, no better than the pests who call during dinner to get you to renew your magazine subscriptions. Fine.
“Tell her that Rafe Acosta won’t be her pro-am dance partner any longer,” I told him, finally losing my temper. I banged the phone down on the table.
It rang almost before my hand left it.
“You can’t do this to me, Rafe,” Sherry Indrebo said in a voice like liquid nitrogen. “I told you I’m working on it. It’s not as easy-”
“It’s Stacy Graysin,” I broke in. “I don’t know how to tell you this, Ms. Indrebo, but Rafe’s dead.”
The hiss of an indrawn breath was the only proof she’d heard me. Thirty seconds went by before she said, “How? What happened?”
“Someone killed him at the studio last night,” I said.
More silence. “I have to talk to you in person,” she finally said. “Can you meet me at, oh, the Grant Memorial in an hour? It’s right outside the Capitol.”
“I don’t know-” Her request surprised me and I wasn’t really in the mood to trek downtown.
“Please?”
The urgency in the word got to me. I’m not sure I’d ever heard her use it before. And I had to admit I was curious. “Okay. I’ll see you in an hour.”
General Ulysses S. Grant presided over the memorial from atop a placid-looking bronze horse. Larger-thanlife maned lions lay at the four corners of Grant’s stone dais, facing out. Perhaps they were watching for danger: pigeons or taggers. I wasn’t quite sure the lions worked with the Civil War-era general and the cannon behind him with soldiers draped over it, but they probably had some mythological significance. A few tourists loitered around the statues and a boy of eight or nine climbed onto the lion nearest me to have his photo taken, but I didn’t see Sherry Indrebo. I was just lowering myself to sit on the marble stairs when I spotted her coming toward me from the Capitol. Her brisk walk and the way she focused straight forward set her apart from the herd of tourists.
“This is an absolute nightmare,” she said as she drew even with me. A frown pinched her refined features and, despite the
Noting that she hadn’t bothered with “Hello, Stacy,” or a “Thanks for coming, Stacy,” I waited for her to tell me why she’d dragged me all the way downtown.
“I can’t believe someone shot Rafe. It’s unbelievable.” Her fingers twiddled the strand of marble-sized pearls gracing her neck.
I reared back slightly at her words. “I didn’t tell you Rafe was shot,” I said carefully.
She gave me a scornful look, completely unfazed by the implication that her knowledge was suspicious. “I made some calls after we talked,” she said. “To the police. They say an arrest is imminent.”
“Really?” I said, trying to swallow around the lump that swelled in my throat. “Did they say who?”
Surprisingly, she didn’t seem too concerned about the identity of Rafe’s killer. She waved my question away as her eyes scanned the disinterested tourists as if she suspected one of them might be taping our conversation. Paranoia: the hallmark of the true Washington insider. “What I have to discuss with you is… sensitive. Can I trust you not to tell anyone?”
“Maybe,” I said. Why in the world would the congresswoman from Minnesota want to tell me something sensitive?
Her mouth twisted with dissatisfaction. “This is awkward.” She paced toward the edge of the pool that reflected Grant’s image and motioned for me to join her. My patio dress swished around my ankles as I stepped closer to the pool and stared into its inky depths. A hopeful duck swam over and looked up at us. “I left something at Rafe’s condo the last time I was there,” she said in a low voice. “I need you to get it for me.”
