Dead on Her Feet (An Antonia Blakeley Tango Mystery Book 1) Read Free Page A

didn’t ask the usual question—how did it happen? Maybe he already knew. “I’ll need you to come with me, sir. We’ll need a formal ID.”
    The dance instructor, who’d been listening with openmouthed dismay, took Guest’s hesitation as an opportunity to butt in. “Are you positive it’s Miles? The police make mistakes all the time.”
    No arguments there, Morrow thought, hiding his amusement. In his twenty years as a cop he’d seen more snafus than he had as a career Marine, which was saying something. In this case the corpse’s face had been eaten away but Rothenberg’s wallet had provided the needed calling card. “We’re pretty sure on this one, ma’am.”
    “What happened? What was Miles doing at the Chattahoochee? He’s a strictly urban guy.”
    Seems to know him pretty well, Morrow thought. She could be useful. He reached into his jacket pocket for his notebook. “Ma’am, would you mind giving me your full name and phone number?”
    The woman sized him up like a wrestler weighing her options to pin him to the mat, which was pretty funny—she couldn’t have topped a hundred and ten soaking wet. Midthirties. A rakish white streak ran through her otherwise brown, nearly waist-long hair, which was pulled back in a severe ponytail as if to downplay her femininity. It wasn’t working. An almost invisible scar on her left cheekbone underscored the determination in her face. He’d seen that type of injury before with battered women. “It’s Antonia Blakeley. Ms.” She rattled off her phone number. “And would you mind giving me your name and contact information, too?”
    It never paid to get into a pissing match with a member of the public. He brought out one of his business cards.
    She inspected it. “Detective S. Morrow.” That seemed to satisfy her because her expression softened. She looked up at Guest and said, “Roland, I’m sorry. Miles was a good man.”
    “One of the best.” Guest pulled out a handkerchief and blotted his forehead. “Excuse the heat. We’re in the middle of a tango lesson.”
    Could’ve fooled me, Morrow thought. One woman in an Indian shirt was spinning and waving her arms like some underwater Hindu goddess, eyeing Guest and pretending not to. “When did you see him last, sir?”
    “I spoke with him on the phone Tuesday night. Miles was supposed to help me manage the store on Friday but he never made it.”
    The dance instructor turned on Guest. “And you didn’t call or go look for him?”
    Witnesses were often more frank talking to each other. And Ms. Blakeley was asking good questions. Morrow decided to let her run.
    “Now Antonia,” Guest said in a patronizing tone. “Just because a guy fails to show for work doesn’t mean it’s a police matter.”
    Blakeley didn’t give an inch. Atta girl. She planted her hands on her hips and shot back, “Maybe not, but you and I both know that wasn’t like him.”
    Guest said, “I never thought Miles was the type to kill himself.”
    “He wasn’t,” Blakeley countered flatly.
    Morrow said, “Any reason to believe your business partner was thinking of suicide, sir?”
    Guest shook his head. “I wouldn’t know. Miles was a very private person.”
    Blakeley asked, “Did he leave a note?”
    The dead man hadn’t left one at his home, which made suicide less likely, but there was no value in sharing that news. “It’s early days, ma’am.”
    Guest hadn’t shown any unusual signs of nervousness over cause of death so Morrow switched topics, watching for any betraying signs of self-grooming. “Did he have any financial troubles?”
    The antiques dealer brushed a nonexistent bead of sweat from his upper lip. “The business is running well in the black. I can’t speak for his personal finances.” Guest refolded his handkerchief and slipped it back into his pocket. “As I’m his business partner I imagine it will fall to me to make the necessary … ah … arrangements. And you’ll want my help with