Bazan raised the book he’d been examining. “Have you read
“Sure,” I said. “And, no, I haven’t read it. I’m more of a fiction reader.” Truth to tell, I wasn’t much of an anything reader, outside of ballroom dance publications and the occasional fashion mag. A book about suffering didn’t exactly sound like the upbeat and escapist fare I preferred on the rare occasions when I bought a book.
“It’s written by the president of Harvard University,” he said. “It’s about how the unprecedented number of deaths in your Civil War changed the nation. Do you do much thinking about death, Stacy?”
Not until recently. “No.”
His dark eyes studied my face. “You should.”
Why did that sound like a threat? And where the hell was Tav? This meeting was his idea.
“Death comes to us all. And, despite the author’s contention that a massive number of deaths in a short period presents special challenges for a nation, it probably doesn’t matter much to the individual whether he-or she-dies alone and unnoticed by history or as part of a mass die-off that history notes, like the Black Death, the Holocaust, or war.” He slotted the book back onto the shelf.
“Aren’t you going to get that?”
“I’ve read it.” He faced me squarely and I felt like I was confronting a wall or some other immovable object. A boulder, perhaps. A muscle twitched at the corner of his eye, making me wonder if he was nervous or stressed. “Where is my wife?”
Mindful of Tav’s instructions, I said, “I don’t know where she is right now, but she tried to use my credit card at a hotel in Richmond last night. The credit card company called me.”
His brows drew together. “Richmond? What in the world would she be doing in Richmond?”
A Japanese man in a suit jostled me as he reached for the latest Lee Child thriller. I shrugged. “I have no idea,” I said. Not sure how else to keep the conversation going, I added, “I went out to Rafe’s cabin, where Victoria stayed, to see if I could find anything.”
“And?” Anticipation lit his dark eyes.
“Someone had searched the place. Maybe a couple of someones.”
“My men found nothing when they went out there,” he said, waving a dismissive hand. “In fact, I can hardly believe Victoria stayed there, if what my men said about the place is true. She’s what you Americans call ‘high maintenance.’ Wooden cabins with no electricity are not her style.”
I was disappointed with how easily he admitted to searching the cabin. He didn’t sound like a man with anything to hide. Something over my shoulder caught his attention and I turned to follow his gaze, hoping to see Tav. Bazan’s aide stood at the door, pointing to his watch.
“I must catch my flight,” Bazan said, shifting his weight to move past me.
“Wait!” I put a hand on his arm, feeling the slabs of muscle even through his suit. My mind revved as I sought desperately for some way to jolt him into betraying himself, into telling me the truth about the night Rafe died. “The police found Victoria’s fingerprints on the gun that killed Rafe,” I blurted.
He froze in place and I could feel the shock run through him, an involuntary tremor in his muscles. A split second later he surprised me with a bark of laughter. “Ha! So Victoria killed him? I could have told him not to turn his back on her. That woman would slip a knife between your ribs as soon as kiss you.” Shaking my hand off his arm, he straightened his sleeve. “I’ll have someone show her photo around Richmond, but she’s probably long gone from there. I can make it worth your while to let me know if Victoria tries to use your credit card again. Call me.” Without waiting for me to reply, he strode toward his assistant and they headed for the security checkpoint.
I immediately phoned Tav, but got his voice mail. Hoping he’d still show up, I browsed the books, trying to decide if I’d learned anything from Bazan. His shock when I told him about Victoria’s fingerprints on my gun almost convinced me he hadn’t killed Rafe. Or maybe he was surprised because he
If Victoria was telling the truth, Rafe tried to give her my gun the afternoon he died. She handled it, getting her prints on it. Bazan could have discovered she was gone that evening and guessed she was with Rafe, either because he’d had her followed or because he knew about their prior relationship. Heck, Victoria could even have told him-in a note?-that she was leaving him for Rafe. He confronted Rafe at the studio that night, I theorized. Rafe pulled out my gun, Bazan wrested it from him and shot him. Maybe his prints were on the gun, too, or maybe he’d had the foresight to wear gloves. Or maybe Bazan was right and Victoria really had done it. My head ached. I rested my forehead briefly on the book turned face out on the shelf in front of me. Straightening, I shined the cover guiltily with my shirttail, hoping I hadn’t gotten sweat or makeup on it. It was a mystery by someone named Brad Parks and the cover intrigued me. On impulse, I took it to the cashier. Paying for the book, I looked around one last time for Tav, and then headed for the Metro.
My phone rang just before I got on the escalator and I stepped away from it to answer. Tav greeted me with apologies, told me the Metro car he’d been on had stopped underground for no discernible reason, and he hadn’t been able to call me. He sounded frustrated. “Did you see Bazan?”
“Oh, yeah.” I gave him the
“So we are no further forward then we were,” he said, sighing. “And if Bazan is leaving town, who knows when we will get the chance to speak with him again.”
A woman edged past me onto the escalator, pushing a stroller with a toddler in it, and juggling a slice of pizza on a paper tray, a can of soda, a diaper bag, and a rolling suitcase. “Let me help you,” I said. “Gotta go,” I told Tav when the woman smiled gratefully and passed me the diaper bag and pizza.
The Metro was crowded with late rush hour travelers and I had to stand all the way to my stop. I’d bobbled the pizza on the ride down the escalator and gotten a smear of pepperoni grease on my blouse so I smelled like a pizzeria. Trudging down the hot sidewalks to my house, I greeted my quiet entryway with relief and headed to the kitchen to sponge at the orangey stain on my shirt. I gave up and stripped it off, tossing it on the laundry room floor. Anxious to see if the refinisher had made more progress, I headed upstairs after grabbing a clean blouse out of the dryer. I had it halfway buttoned when I reached the top of the stairs and heard faint strains of quickstep music and a woman’s voice saying, “The lockstep should go like this.”
Solange.
Maurice must have let her in; he’d had a private session scheduled for earlier this afternoon. Furious that she had the nerve-the gall!-to waltz in and use my studio after all that had happened, I banged through the door and stomped to the small studio. The door stood open and I reached down and unplugged the stereo. The couple stuttered to a stop when the music died, Solange facing me.
“What the hell are you doing here?” I spat. “Out. Now.”
“My partner and I are getting in some rehearsal time,” she said, not one whit embarrassed by my appearance. “And since we’re-I’m-going to be part-owner of the studio soon, it seemed foolish to wait on all that paperwork. That look’s a little blatant, don’t you think?” She nodded at my partially buttoned shirt, which, I saw, was displaying way too much cleavage and half of my sheer, flesh-colored bra.
My fingers fumbled with the buttons as my stomach roiled at the thought of sharing the studio with Solange. I couldn’t do it. If Tav sold out to her I’d start over again, change the name… anything rather than work with the scheming bitch.
Solange’s partner turned around and I gasped. “Mark?” My hands dropped to my sides.
Mark Downey’s gaze grazed my chest and then he tilted his chin up as if daring me to say something. “Now that Solange’s ankle is doing better, she and I have entered the Emerald Ball in LA next month-too bad it’s too late for an invitation to Blackpool this year-and we need a place to practice. Surely you wouldn’t be so petty-”
Oh, yes I would. I was prepared to scale new heights of pettiness, not that I thought it was petty to kick this conniving couple out of my dance studio. My mind snagged on something Solange had said. “What did you mean ‘we’ are going to be part-owners of the studio?”
For the first time she looked flustered, her eyes darting from me to Mark. “I just meant that we-you and I-were going to be partners.”
“No, you didn’t.” I advanced on her.
“We might as well tell her,” Mark said, stepping into my path. He looked smug. “I’m Solange’s financial backer. We’re going in together to buy Rafe’s share. We weren’t going to say anything until after it was a done deal-I was afraid you’d try to put a wrench in it since you didn’t seem to want me involved-but what can you do, after all?
