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

his personal effects.”
    Morrow pretended to consult his notes but he was really just letting Guest dangle, hoping he’d volunteer something else, but Guest kept his cool. “I understand there’s an ex-wife. Lauren Weiss Rothenberg. Cell phone record shows he called her.” Technically true; Guest couldn’t know they didn’t talk.
    “Oh. Of course.” Guest gazed longingly at the exit. “I know this sounds callous but Miles would understand. I’m supposed to leave for BA—Buenos Aires. I have pressing business there.”
    What’s this big dog got to do in Argentina that’s so important, Morrow thought. “Afraid you’ll have to wait.”
    “How long?”
    “Just a few days for the autopsy.”
    “You can’t cut him up,” Ms. Blakeley interrupted. “Miles was Jewish. It’s a violation or a humiliation, I forget which.”
     “Sorry, ma’am,” Morrow said, neatly cutting her off, but his next comment, the one he’d been waiting to make all along, was really directed at Guest. “We have to eliminate the possibility of homicide. Rest assured, there will be a full investigation.”
    Guest blanched.
    Morrow smiled to himself. Ooh-rah .
     
     
     
     
     

CHAPTER 4
    Grave Matters
     
    AS MORROW EXPECTED the preliminary report showed Miles Rothenberg had drowned. The stretch of water where he’d gone in had been too shallow for anyone to reliably kill themselves or anyone else, and there had been reports of flash flooding that night. The tox exam would establish whether drugs or alcohol had helped him along, but unless it revealed evidence of poisoning the death would be ruled an accident.
    That just left the unexplained call Rothenberg made to his ex-wife. Guest was clearly up to something. Hopefully the dead man’s last words would give them reason to continue investigating.
    Morrow had arranged to meet Jackson, the new partner he was breaking in, half an hour before Rothenberg’s funeral. The plan was to observe how Guest handled himself at the service, assuming he hadn’t already left for Argentina. Then Morrow would interview Lauren Weiss Rothenberg and take custody of the answering machine tape, as arranged, and Jackson would follow Guest. It wasn’t clear where that might lead but it was good practice for the recently promoted detective, and if Guest spotted an eager young greenhorn trailing him, that could have its good points, too. Improvise, adapt, and overcome.
    Oakland Cemetery represented a Who’s Who of Atlanta’s dead. Gone with the Wind author Margaret Mitchell and golfer Bobby Jones were buried there, as well as governors, Confederate soldiers, and even slaves—buried under both their own names and the names of their owners. A section had been set aside in antebellum times for what the guidebooks called “people of the Jewish faith.” Miles Rothenberg’s forebears had managed to snag a plot.
    Morrow decided to take up observation thirty feet from the grave where a stand of oaks would provide cover. If the funeral party turned out to be large enough he’d slip into the crowd to observe at closer range. If not, he’d pretend to be calling on another of the honored dead. A mockingbird trilled, cheeped and warbled on one of the carefully tended lawns.
    Morrow spotted Jackson trotting down the brick path, beige raincoat open and flapping behind him. The younger man drew up, slightly out of breath, earnest face contorted in an expression of apology. “Sorry, sir. Traffic on Martin Luther King, sir. But I secured the information you requested.”
    “You’re right on time and knock off the ‘sirs,’ son.”
     Jackson brought out his notes. “Miles Rothenberg and Roland Guest jointly owned an art and antiques shop called Rothenberg Guest European and Asian Acquisitions. Real fancy setup. Paintings, oriental rugs and carpets, sculpture, antique furniture. At that location for twelve years. According to Rothenberg’s lawyer, his share of the business passes directly to Guest and most