Quickstep to Murder Read Free Page B

family—would mean she has a temper, but she’s the calmest person I know.
    “Come on down while I change,” I said, pushing to my feet.
    She backed into the hall as I shuffled to the door. “What? Did you add judo throws to your class today? And I’ve heard of people paying obscene sums for ‘distressed’ jeans, but I didn’t know the trend had extended to ball gowns.”
    “Since when are you a fashion critic?” I asked. Dani had the dullest collection of beige, navy, and gray suits ever assembled in a single closet. With shoes to match. She called her wardrobe “nonthreatening” and said it helped her connect with the pink- and blue-collar workers she represented. I’d rather starve on the street than wear beige. Sometimes it’s hard to believe we’re related.
    Just as I reached the hall, the door leading to the exterior stairs swung open. Mark Downey stepped in, his sandy hair tousled, a grin on his face. A couple years younger than me, Mark did something with computers and danced on the side. He paid me a handsome fee to dance with him at professional-amateur competitions—common practice in the competitive ballroom world; in fact, it’s how most pros made the bulk of their money.
    “Stacy! Just the person I was hoping to see,” he said. Two strides brought him to where I stood and he bent to kiss my cheek. I introduced him to Dani and they shook hands.
    “Did we have a practice scheduled?” I wrinkled my brow, sure it hadn’t been on my calendar. His buttondown shirt and khaki slacks didn’t suggest he was here to dance.
    “No. I was just in the area and thought I’d take you to lunch. You, too,” he said, politely extending the invitation to Dani.
    “That’s sweet of you, Mark,” I said, “but Dani and I have plans. Maybe another time?”
    “Sure.” He took the rebuff easily. “I’ve got a few errands to run anyway. See you at class tonight?”
    “Probably.” Rafe was scheduled to teach, but I usually poked my head in.
    “Great. See you then. Nice meeting you, Danielle,” he said. With a flip of his hand he disappeared out the door. I could hear him clomping down the stairs.
    “He’s got a thing for you,” Dani observed slyly.
    “He’s a kid,” I said. “And he’s got a girlfriend. She’s come to watch us in competitions once or twice.”
    “Still. You could do worse. He’s cute if you like the boy-next-door type. Beaver Cleaver or Richie Cunningham all grown up.”
    I didn’t answer since we both knew my taste ran more to an edgy, dangerous, heartbreaking Rafe Acosta type.
    We headed down the hall that ran the length of the house to a door marked PRIVATE. As we descended the interior stairs to my living quarters, I told Dani about Rafe’s strange behavior and about my run-in with the limo.
    “What’d they say before they ran you down?” Danielle asked as we emerged into my sun-drenched kitchen.
    Although I loved the natural light, it did tend to spotlight the worn areas in the lichen-colored linoleum that was probably laid down before the Iron Curtain went up, and the stained grout on the turquoise tiled counters, remnants of an unfortunate redecorating effort in the 1960s. As soon as I had any money to spare, I was redoing the kitchen. “Zilch.”
    “Have you considered the possibility this was just some poor chauffeur waiting for his employer to finish at the day spa? He probably thought you were a celebrity stalker or something.”
    I ducked into my bedroom to change, but left the door open so I could hear Dani.
    “It wasn’t a celebrity,” I called, shucking off my ruined dress and reaching for a pair of green capris. “The car had diplomat plates.” I hadn’t learned much from my confrontation with the limo, but I had noticed the license plate as it sped away; the familiar blue and white bore the country code “PR.” I didn’t know what country that was offhand, but I could Google it later.
    “Fine. So it was an ambassador getting a hot stone