Dead on the Dance Floor

  “So you can twist them?” she asked.

  “Lara was an acknowledged goddess in the world of ballroom dance. How are you feeling?” Ryan demanded, sounding as if he were actually sympathetic.

  “How the hell do you think we feel?” she demanded angrily. “She died far too young. It was tragic. What do you think people feel? Pain. It’s a loss. Now, if you’ll excuse us, please?”

  “Where are you going? Are you all getting together somewhere? I didn’t hear the priest invite the crowd back anywhere,” Ryan persisted.

  “The wake was open to the public, as the funeral was,” Gordon said firmly. “Now it’s a private time for those who knew her. Come on, Shannon.”

  With Gordon’s arm around her shoulder, she started for the limousine, but Ryan’s words followed her. “Look at that, will you? Ben Trudeau, still standing at the grave. She divorced his ass a long time ago, huh?”

  Shannon couldn’t remember feeling such deep-seated fury in a long time. She was afraid she was going to lash out, lose control, hurl herself at the reporter with teeth and nails bared, and take out all her concerns, frustrations and, yes, fears on the man.

  But when she turned, he wasn’t alone. Both O’Casey brothers were there, flanking Hatfield, ready to escort him away.

  “What on earth are you doing?” the reporter demanded indignantly. “Let me go this minute or I’ll go to the police. I’ll have you sued until you have to sell the clothes off your back. I have the cops on speed dial.”

  “I am a cop,” Doug said flatly.

  “Let’s go,” Gordon said, taking Shannon’s arm.

  “Go,” Quinn said to her.

  “Hey, this is like kidnapping or something,” Ryan complained.

  “They might want to charge you with harrassment,” Doug said.

  Shannon didn’t hear any more. Gordon was moving; he had her arm, so she was moving, too. In another minute, she was in the limo.

  Just before the door closed, they were joined by Ben Trudeau. He shook his head as he stared out the window.

  “Fucking reporters,” he muttered.

  “Ben,” Gordon admonished quietly.

  “There aren’t any students around,” Ben said distractedly.

  “It’s still—” Gordon began.

  “It’s a rat-shit day. Leave him alone, please,” Shannon put in.

  The limo moved out of the cemetery. Ben looked downward between his hands, then up, letting out a long breath. “It’s real. She’s really gone. Into the ground. I don’t believe it.”

  Gordon set an arm around his shoulders. “Yeah, it’s hard to accept.”

  You’re next.

  The memory of the words came to Shannon with a sharp chill. She shivered.

  Ben looked past Gordon, who was in the middle. “I’m sorry, Shannon. Are you all right?”

  “Of course. I’m fine.”

  He looked out the window again thoughtfully. “Interesting. That stinking rag writer would have driven us all nuts. I guess it’s a good thing we have one of the county’s finest among our students. Doug. You know, though, his brother is the one who saw the guy and went after him first. Are we sure he’s not a cop? He’s in awful tight with them.”

  “No, he’s not a cop. Maybe he was once, but not anymore,” Shannon said.

  “He still acts like one,” Ben noted.

  “What do you mean?” Gordon demanded.

  Ben shrugged. “I don’t know. He’s always…watching. You know, I was at lunch yesterday, and he was in the same café. In the back…”

  Gordon shrugged. “I run into people all over town. At the bank, at the movies, wherever.”

  “Yeah, I guess you’re right. Hey, is he coming to this thing?”

  “No. I didn’t ask any of the students. Only some of the pros Lara worked with, and the people from our building.” Gordon pressed a hand to his forehead. “The public had the wake and the funeral. Time to be alone.”

  The spot he had chosen for the after-funeral tribute was a small place on Lincoln Road where they’d gone many times for special occasions. Gordon had kept the attendance down to about twenty.

  They gathered around four tables, and Gordon gave his personal eulogy to Lara. Then Ben spoke, and, to Shannon, his emotions seemed honest. He spoke of their relationship as passionate and sometimes as emotionally violent as the dances she had performed, but said in the end that her spirit was one that had touched them all, and that their loss was tremendous. They would all remember things she had told them—bluntly, at times, but each and every word one that would make them better at their craft, their vocation, the dancing that was not just work but part of their very being.

  Shannon was glad to see that the people who attended included not just friends from the area but all over the country and even from Europe. She agreed again to see Gunter during the week, but broke away when he told her she created the best choreography he’d ever seen and they were all lucky she didn’t use it for herself—but she should.

  At one point she found herself talking with Christie Castle, five time National Smooth Champion, and now both a coach and a judge at competitions around the world.

  “How are you holding up?” Christie asked her. Christie was slender as a reed, about five-five, with huge dark eyes and ink-black hair. Her age was indeterminate, but at ninety, she was still going to be beautiful.

  “Fine. It’s a shattering event, but Lara and I didn’t hang out,” Shannon reminded her.

  “Gordon says you’ve been nervous lately.” She lowered her voice. “And your receptionist told me that you’re convinced there’s more going on than we know.”

  “Ella shouldn’t have said anything to you.”

  “Do you really think Lara might have been murdered?”

  Shannon noticed that Christie was whispering. Gordon, Ben, Justin, Sam Railey and several others were right behind them. Shannon thought that Ben turned slightly, as if he were more interested in what they were saying than in the conversation in which he was taking part.

  “I don’t really think anything,” Shannon said.

  Christie set a hand on her knee, dark eyes wide with concern. “You look really tired. Are you sleeping all right?”

  Last night, ten minutes after the movie had started, Shannon had been sound asleep, but that had been the first time in a week she had really slept.

  “Not really. I don’t know why. I’m just a little tense.”

  “You need a dog,” Christie said, nodding sagely.

  Shannon smiled, looking downward. Christie had Puff, a teacup Yorkie. The little dog went everywhere with her. In fact, Puff probably had more airline mileage stacked up than most CEOs.

  “Christie, I’m gone almost fifteen hours a day. And honestly, if I had a little Puff, and someone was after me…”

  “Excuse me, he may be small, but Puff has a killer bark.”

  “What’s that about a killer bark?”

  Gabriel Lopez slid into the seat next to Christie. He had a look in his eyes, a flirtatious look. He never actually leered. He had a way of looking at a woman that simply indicated total appreciation and therefore managed not to be offensive.

  “Puff, of course,” Christie said.

  He laughed. “I thought that you were referring to killer cute and meant me.”

  “Thankfully, Gabriel, neither of us is foolish enough to take you seriously. We’re both well aware that you’ve dated every single celebrity who has ever come to town. And then some,” Christie told him.

  “Not true!” he protested. With a shrug, he smiled ruefully. “You know, there’s an image a club owner needs to keep up.”

  Ben had apparently tired of the conversation behind them. He slid into the empty chair on Shannon’s other side. “You seem to keep it up okay,” he assured Gabriel, grinning at his own double entendre.

  “And what about you? As charming as Fred Astaire, with women ready to follow your every step.” He spoke lightly, but then his face changed slightly. “I’m
so sorry, Ben.”

  “We’re all sorry. I guess we have to accept it.” Ben stared at Shannon. “God knows we’ve got the students to set our minds at rest. Doug O’Casey admired Lara, and he’s in a position to make sure the police checked out every possibility.”

  “Ah, yes, the young patrolman,” Gabriel murmured. “He watched her like a puppy dog. You could tell he hated it when she danced with others, and he looked as if he’d died and gone to heaven when she danced with him.”

  “He’s a terrific student,” Christie said. “She certainly made a difference for him.”

  “Jane is his instructor, and she’s excellent,” Shannon put in.

  “Yes, but he signed up for a lot of coaching sessions, didn’t he?” Christie asked. “I understand he signed up for half the day when Lara was around.” She shrugged as she looked at Shannon. “She was still competing and I’m not. That makes a difference to some people.”

  “Interesting,” Ben noted.

  “What?” Christie asked him.

  “It’s so expensive…paying for coaching when you’re an amateur. And Doug is just a patrolman. Where do you think he got the money?” Ben mused.

  “Dirty cop?” Gabriel said.

  “Hey!” Shannon protested.

  “Well, he has spent a lot of money at the studio, right?” Ben said.

  “Maybe he has family money,” she suggested.

  “Well, maybe. And now his brother’s there. He says he’s not a cop, that he runs charters or fishing boats, or something,” Ben said.

  “Maybe he’s a drug lord with a great cover,” Gabriel suggested.

  “Who’s a drug lord?”

  They had been joined by Jim Burke, Lara’s last partner. He looked like hell. Shannon had the feeling he’d spent the week crying. His hazel eyes were red rimmed. He was in a sleek suit and a subdued blue tailored shirt, but he looked haggard despite the fact that his clothing was immaculate.

  “Shannon’s new student,” Christie said. “Not really—we were just speculating.”

  “He runs a charter business,” Shannon told Jim. She smiled at him. “You all right?”

  “Yeah, yeah, I’m doing fine. Feeling a little lost, but…I should be getting ready for Asheville. The competition there. Lara and I were signed up for it. Instead…”

  “Take some time,” Shannon suggested.

  “I can’t afford to take too much time,” he murmured. “I don’t have Lara’s deep pockets. I survived on the purses from our winnings most of the time.”

  “You’ll get a new partner,” Christie told him.

  “Yeah,” Ben muttered.

  Christie turned to Shannon. “Someone should be cultivating Doug Quinn. I know he’s on the police force, but that young man could have a career in professional dance.”

  “Maybe he likes having a life,” Jim muttered.

  “And he’d have to go back to making zilch if he wanted to teach, so he could spend time getting the training he’d need,” Gabriel pointed out.

  “Maybe his drug-dealing brother could help him out,” Ben muttered.

  Shannon groaned. “Oh, please. Maybe everything is just what it seems. Come on. We’re all going to be ripped to shreds in the papers tomorrow—let’s not do it to ourselves.” She stood. “Excuse me, you all. I think this has been the longest week in history. Christie, you’ll be down for at least a week before the Gator Gala, right?” She wanted to kick herself the minute the words were out of her mouth. This was the last tribute to Lara, and she was bringing up business.

  “Hey, how about me?” Ben asked her.

  “Of course, Ben. We’d love to bring you in to coach,” she told him.

  Gabriel stood. “You came in the limousine?” he asked her.

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll give you a ride home. I need to get to work.”

  “Great, thanks,” she said. She walked around the table, saying her goodbyes, kissing cheeks. Leaving always took a while—they were an affectionate group. It was like leaving an Italian family dinner.

  “I’m sorry, I had a lot of goodbyes,” she told Gabriel when they at last exited into the late afternoon.

  “It’s all right. I like following you around,” Gabriel said. “Everyone kisses me.”

  She laughed. “You’re so full of it. Everyone walks into your club and kisses you, too.”

  He shrugged. “It’s a good life. I work hard, but it is a good life. Don’t you feel that way?”

  “Yes, of course. I absolutely love what I do.”

  “But it doesn’t leave room for much else. At least,” he teased, “what I do is social.”

  “Oh, come on. You can’t get much more social than dancing.”

  “But you put up walls. I don’t.”

  She laughed suddenly. “What is this? All of a sudden everyone has decided that they have to be my psychoanalyst. I’m fine.”

  He arched a brow. “Everyone is telling you this?”

  She shook her head, suddenly not wanting to tell him it was her brand-new student—Quinn, the cop’s brother, the one they were teasingly suggesting might be a drug lord—who had made a similar observation.

  “Never mind. There’s my house.”

  He let out a sound of mock disgust. “I know where your house is.”

  He pulled up in front and started to get out. For Gabriel, it was natural. A man opened a door for a lady.

  “Gabe, I’m fine,” she said, reaching for the door handle.

  “Hey, you taught me—in dance, a man always leads. I will teach you that, in life, that same man likes to open doors for a lady and walk her to her door.”

  She laughed. “Okay, Gabe.”

  He came around and opened the car door, taking her hand in an elaborate show of attention. “If you had any sense, you’d fall madly in love with me. We’d rule the world.”

  “I have plenty of sense, and that’s why I’ll never fall madly in love with you. And I don’t want the responsibility of ruling the world.” She slipped the key into her lock and opened the door, then turned to say goodbye.

  “You could still invite me in. We’d be two lonely souls making wild passionate love on a stolen afternoon so that we could go back to our all-business lives with secret memories of what might have been,” he said.

  “Gabriel, that’s the biggest crock I’ve ever heard.”

  “Okay, but it would still be fun, huh?”

  “I’m sure there are dozens of women out there who would willingly give you an afternoon,” she assured him.

  “They don’t have your body.”

  “Thanks. I think.”

  “I’ve got it. You’re already having a secret affair with someone.”

  “No, I’m afraid not.”

  “Then come on. My body is pretty good, too.”

  “Gabriel, you’re practically perfect in every way.”

  “Then why not?”

  “You’re my friend. I want to keep it that way.”

  “Okay. Want to go to a movie?”

  She burst out laughing again. “You know, that would be fun. Ask me again. But not today. It’s just been far too long a week. And, hey, I thought you had to go to work.”

  “I’d call in sick for you.” He sighed. “All right. Spend your lonely Saturday night by yourself.”

  “Thanks for the ride, Gabriel.”

  He swept her a little bow and gave her a mocking grin. “Any time. Goodbye. Lock up, now.”

  She nodded. As he walked down the path to his car, she noted that it had gone from dusky to dark. She wished it was summer. She loved it when the daylight hours extended late.

  After closing and locking the door, she hesitated. The shadows had invaded the house. She walked around, turning on all the lights in a sudden flurry. Better.

  Ridiculously, she had another creepy feeling. Not creepy enough to make her wish she had invited Gabe in, but uncomfortable.

  There was, she thought, absolutely nothing in her house that resembled a weapon. Un
til recently she had never been afraid in her own home.

  The best she could come up with was one of her old tennis rackets. Brandishing it in one hand, she began a methodic check of the house.

  Beyond a doubt, it was empty.

  She sat down in the back, staring at the TV, despite the fact that it was off. The room was bright. The back windows were large, looking out on her little bit of yard. It was rich with foliage. She suddenly realized that if you were worried about people looking in at you, it wasn’t smart to have bright lights on inside, darkness outside and the draperies opened. She jumped up to close the drapes.

  As she did so, she thought she saw a flash of movement through the trees.

  No.

  She did see it.

  Palms bent, bushes swayed. And a sense of cold deeper than any fear she had ever known coursed through her veins.

  He watched and cursed himself.

  Close call.

  Close call? No, not really. She wouldn’t have come out into the yard. And if she had…?

  Pity.

  But she was nervous. Really nervous. Why? Because she just didn’t believe? The little fool. What the hell did she owe Lara Trudeau? Why should she care?

  But she wasn’t giving up. Everyone talked about the way Shannon kept insisting that Lara hadn’t accidentally done herself in. Was it because she knew Lara?

  Or because she knew something else?

  He stared at the house for a moment longer. Then he turned, disappearing silently around the back. He knew the house well. There was no alarm. If it was ever necessary…

  He paused, looking back.

  Let it go, Shannon, he thought.

  Let it go.

  Or…

  You’ll be next.

  CHAPTER 9

  Quinn rubbed his forehead and looked over his notes. Students, teachers, competitors. Possibilities, motives. He had a sheet with the names of everyone who had attended the competition, and there were hundreds of names on it. Many, of course, he had come to know.

  He had started a list himself. Similarities, dissimilarities. The death of Nell Durken, the death of Lara Trudeau. Nell, her death classified a homicide. Lara, her death classified an accident, an overdose, self-inflicted.

  Two different physicians, both of them respected in their fields, their prescriptions for the tranquilizers perfectly legitimate, proper dosages duly specified. Nell’s husband had been caught cheating. His fingerprints had been all over her bottle of pills.