Death of a Tango Dancer Read online

  The cheap white envelope was thank-you note size. It was sealed, but someone had torn off the bottom right corner, which had to mean something. Containing her excitement, Antonia tilted the envelope and tapped it. Out spilled irregular grains of what looked like off-white sugar.

  Ah HA.

  She leapt up and marched to the center of the floor. The paramedics were just standing around, probably waiting for permission to remove Jorge’s corpse, so it wasn’t really interrupting. “I think you should see this,” she said, in what she hoped was a modest tone. “The last of Jorge’s stash.”

  The older paramedic took the envelope, tipped it into his rubber-gloved hand, saw a few off-white crystals drop into his palm and immediately said to the younger paramedic, “Stay with her,” and walked off in the direction of the main dining room. He returned with the police officer, and pointed at her. “This is the gal that found the meth.”

  Antonia blurted out, “Meth? Are you sure? Not cocaine?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” the officer said. “Where’d you find the envelope?”

  Okay, Antonia thought, maybe I was wrong about which drug it was, but that doesn’t make any difference. I was right about the overdose. “Over here.” She led them to Jorge and Beatriz’ table and pointed to the spot on the floor where the envelope had lain. “I just happened to see it,” she lied.

  The officer said to the paramedic, “Someone would have noticed if he’d pulled an envelope out of his pocket and sprinkled fairy dust into his wine. We got a probable homicide. Watch the table. Nobody touches the glass.”

  Holy moly, Antonia thought. Murdered? Only a handful of people knew Jorge well enough to want him dead. And I know them all. “Officer!”

  But the officer was already trotting away.

  Gonzalo and Beatriz, hovering at the edge of the dance floor, had been watching her interaction with the police officer. Antonia beckoned them over.

  “What’s going on?” Gonzalo asked.

  “The police think Jorge was murdered. I’m so sorry, Beatriz.”

  Beatriz’ posture collapsed. She literally seemed to crumple. She opened up her evening bag, brought out a tiny handkerchief, and dabbed unsuccessfully at a fresh stream of tears. “Imposible,” she wailed.

  “I’m sorry,” Antonia said, not knowing what else to do. It was one thing for Beatriz to lose her mate unexpectedly, but a completely different shock to learn he’d been murdered – unless of course Beatriz did it. God knows she probably had reason. Although why would Beatriz kill Jorge in the U.S. when she could have taken him out in the privacy of her own country?

  Daniel had been making the rounds with the dancers, but he must have noticed Beatriz’ distress because he quickly darted over.

  “Danielo.” Beatriz threw herself into his arms.

  He patted her back, a little awkwardly. “Excuse us,” he said to Antonia. “We’ll just be over at my table.”

  “Of course,” Antonia said. As soon as the couple moved out of earshot, she grabbed Gonzalo by his coat sleeve. “Did you get that? The police think somebody slipped Jorge an overdose of meth in his wine. Can you actually drink meth?”

  “Yes, but it would taste bitter.”

  “That’s okay. Jorge smoked. He probably didn’t have any taste buds left. He’d just think the wine was overly tannic or something. You were with Beatriz when the policeman interviewed her. Did he ask if she saw Jorge take anything?”

  “Yes; she didn’t.”

  “What are they going to do now, interrogate all two hundred of us? They’ll never find out who did it. This will destroy the community.”

  Gonzalo said, “Why don’t you trust the police?”

  “You have to ask that, as an Argentine?” By this point the officer had returned and was cordoning off Jorge’s table with yellow DO NOT PASS GO, DO NOT COLLECT $200 tape. “What if we work backwards from when Jorge started showing signs of poisoning? Can you estimate when he might have taken it?”

  Gonzalo led her back to their table and held out a chair for her. “What were his symptoms, exactly?”

  “Like a motor overheating. His heart rate revved up and he sweat. A lot.” Antonia reached behind her chair for her purse, rummaged around in it and finally located a piece of notepaper and a working pen. Across the top she wrote, what happened. “What time did Jorge collapse?”

  “At about eleven o’clock, I think.”

  Down the left hand margin Antonia listed the time in fifteen minute intervals, starting at eight o’clock and ending at eleven. “Okay, if we allow, what, two minutes for the standing ovation, and two and a half minutes for Milonga De Mis Amores, and we were about a minute into the song when he started to go crazy … right about when the bandoneon takes over … Nuts.” Antonia looked out to the dance floor and saw the paramedics were finally loading Jorge’s body onto a gurney, preparing to cart him away.

  “Let’s call it 10:55,” Gonzalo said. “A minute or two won’t matter. If you ingest meth it would take ten to thirty minutes, forty on the outside, for it to take effect, which means Jorge must have drunk it sometime between 10:15 and 10:45.”

  “Let’s start from the beginning. Just before 9:30, Jorge and Beatriz fight. Beatriz leaves. Daniel starts the fireworks-watching early. Everyone is on the balcony except for Jorge, who has followed Beatriz to the parking lot, and Daniel, who is trying to help them patch things up. Later, Daniel comes onto the balcony to ask me to dance with Jorge, which I deeply regret doing. You know he smelled like mayonnaise?”

  “He did? That’s a sign of prolonged meth use.”

  “So the police got that one right. You know, if Beatriz wanted him dead she could have just let him keep using - he’d do the job himself.”

  “Antonia.”

  “I’m just sayin’.” Antonia saw the police officer had finished examining Jorge’s table and was headed towards Daniel and Beatriz, notebook in hand. “What time did Daniel come for us?”

  “A few minutes before the fireworks ended, which was at 10:25. Let’s say 10:15, give or take a few minutes.”

  “And the performances started at 10:30. Daniel introduced the first couple, and they demonstrated a vals, Desde el Alma, which runs about three minutes. Jorge joined us right after it finished, I remember. Then came Jalousie - I always think of Murder on the Orient Express when I hear that song; the heiress dancing ballroom tango with the husband who later murders her, taking unnecessarily large steps – while they’re dancing, I mean, not while –”

  “That’s too late.” Gonzalo pointed to the timeline. “The important window is between 10:15, around the time Daniel came to get us, and 10:33, when Jorge came over to our table to plan your dance.”

  Antonia drew a line under 10:15 and another under 10:33. “Then Beatriz is out. She left before the fireworks and didn’t return until Jorge and I were performing. I saw her myself. I’m glad it’s not Beatriz.”

  “So who does that leave?”

  “The only other people here who actually knew Jorge were Daniel, Rhonda and Erla. Rhonda could have wanted revenge.” Antonia quickly filled Gonzalo in on what Rhonda had told her at the bar. “She might have arranged to run into Jorge right after the fireworks while everyone was coming back from the balcony.”

  “Daniel’s the most likely suspect, if you look at the timeline. He could have given Jorge something when they were alone in the ballroom during the fireworks, discussing how to replace Beatriz.

  “I know,” Antonia admitted. “But something about that scenario doesn’t feel right. Why bring Jorge to the U.S., at great expense, only to poison him?” With Jorge out of the way, Antonia thought uneasily, maybe Daniel thinks he’s got a chance with Beatriz. If Erla is telling the truth. She met Jorge in Buenos Aires. For all anyone knows, she could have a loved one who died from meth, and decided the stars were propitious to take out a hit on the nearest dealer.

  “Mira. Something’s happening.”

  Antonia turned and saw the police officer had Daniel by the
arm and was walking him to the door. “They’re taking him in. They’re making a huge mistake. He didn’t do it.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Daniel would never have counted on everyone going to watch the fireworks. Someone would have stayed on the floor.” She leapt up from the table and called out, “You’ve got the wrong man!”

  The police officer paused and turned, keeping a strong grip on Daniel. Everyone stared.

  Antonia ran to the center of the pista as fast as her high heels could carry her. I don’t know who did it, she thought, but I know when, and I know how, more or less, and if I don’t act now Daniel will go to jail for something he didn’t do. I’m just going to have to bluff my way through and force the murderer to confess.

  “Look,” she said, “we worked out the timeline. Maybe you think Daniel poisoned Jorge when we were all out on the balcony watching the fireworks. But there was a much better psychological moment when the murderer could count on being unobserved, and that was during the first performance. Nobody would have missed that. Desde el Alma runs about three minutes. Jorge was sitting at his table.” Antonia strolled over to Rhonda’s table. “Plenty of time for someone,” she locked eyes with Rhonda, “to sneak from a neighboring table …”

  Rhonda sniffed and folded her arms across her chest.

  Gonzalo cried out, “Wait! You’ve got the wrong —”

  Antonia drifted towards the DJ station. “— or slip away from her post.” Antonia stared at Erla, but got nothing but an offended look. She was going to have to go all the way – pretend to drink from Jorge’s glass and see who jumped. Jorge’s table was coming into range. Five feet away, four, three … “The murderer used the envelope as a funnel to pour the meth into Jorge’s glass. It was the perfect moment.”

  Antonia paused. “Imagine. The lights are low, except for one floodlight illuminating the dance floor. The music comes on. The dancers start off walking arm in arm, side by side, in time to the music, like they’re taking the air in a country garden and have all the time in the world. The man takes her in his arms. She’s perfectly on her axis. You can see he’s barely holding her. She looks into his eyes. He looks into hers. The music is tender and quiet, just the violins and the piano, each taking their turn. He leads backward ochos, and her feet trace figure eights across the floor, as delicate as a painter’s brush strokes. He leads a series of forward ochos, and she steps on the ONE. ONE-two-three, ONE-two-three, switching direction, switching direction. The music turns tender. It’s just the violins now, then the piano, then the bandoneon, each taking the melody in turn, like old friends finishing each other’s sentences. One final yearning, plaintive note hangs in the air. Then the violin and the piano answer, the pace quickens and the music turns more passionate. Now the orchestra is playing at full throttle, louder, faster, insistent. He sweeps her off her feet. He’s spinning her. She’s flying. You can see the chiffon in her dress trail behind her. He sets her down lightly. They bow.”

  Oh well, Antonia thought, here goes nothing. “And Jorge drinks.”

  Antonia made a dash for Jorge’s table, but when she got there she saw the police had taken the glass. So she pivoted and grabbed the half empty wine glass from her table. It wasn’t the poisoned glass but it would have to do. Bottoms up, she thought, as she downed the rest.

  Beatriz shrieked. “No! No toques ese!”

  Meth tastes bitter. Instinctively, Antonia spit, spewing wine all over the tablecloth. She grabbed her water, swigged the remains, swooshed, and spat everything back into her goblet. Holy mierda, Antonia thought. I totally forgot. When Jorge joined us at our table to talk about his upcoming performance, he brought his glass of wine.

  Antonia held up the glass. “This is the poisoned vessel,” she announced, as if she’d known it all along.

  Beatriz, realizing she’d given herself away, slumped to the floor. “Era yo,” she said. The police officer took Beatriz gently by the arm and helped her to her feet.

  Daniel said, “Don’t say anything, Beatriz. Not until I get you a lawyer. I’ll stand by you.”

  The police officer led Beatriz away.

  Daniel took the floor. He mopped his face with his handkerchief, and to Antonia it seemed he was fighting back tears. “Everybody, may I have your attention please?” The crowd quieted down. “I’m going to the police station with Beatriz.” His voice broke. “But you came here to dance. For anyone who wishes to remain, we will finish the evening’s program. Drinks are on the house.” He signaled Erla.

  Erla combed her hair behind her ears and bent solemnly over her controls, and soon the haunting melody of Canaro’s La Melodia de Nuestres Adios filled the room.

  But nobody wanted to dance. Slowly, the dancers packed up their shoes in their drawstring bags, and gradually the ballroom emptied.

  Gonzalo extended his hand to Antonia. “I guess it’s just us.” She took it and allowed him to escort her to the pista. They embraced. His body felt like a comfortable couch, with springs and cushions in all the right places. And he smelled of aftershave. All as it should be.

  He started with a simple walk.

  “It wasn’t the infidelity that set Beatriz off,” she said, as they circled the floor. “It was the green card. After everything she put up with, Jorge was going to leave her.”

  “Mm-mm.”

  “Beatriz dosed her own glass and switched it with his before she picked the fight. She came back during the first performance to plant the envelope. She couldn’t do it earlier. The wait staff might have picked it up. She wanted us to find the envelope under Jorge’s table. But she didn’t count on ME.” She threw in a voleo, uninvited, just because she felt like it.

  “You had the wrong glass, my dear. The one the police took from Jorge’s table was his original one.”

  “Never mind, my plan worked. I knew Daniel was innocent.”

  “You’re leaning.”

  Funny, Antonia thought. That never happens. She rebalanced her weight over her axis. “I’m feeling strangely electric.” Antonia closed her eyes, tuning in again to Gonzalo’s body. Through her chest she could feel all the way down to his feet, which made her feel grounded and safe. She sighed contentedly. “You asked before, why I had to prove how Jorge died.”

  “Mmm.”

  “When I was married my ex-husband used to beat me. One night the police came to the house and were all ready to slap the cuffs on him, but once they learned his name, and who his family was, suddenly they were saying, maybe you should go for marriage counseling. They refused to help. I guess I have a problem with trust.” She stumbled. “I’m feeling a teensy bit electric. Am I high? I’m high, aren’t I?”

  “Give it time.” Gonzalo drew her closer. “Either way, tango is the antidote.”

  TO MY READERS

  China Harbor is a real restaurant, and they actually do host a July 4th tango event, so it’s all the more important that you know that this is a work of fiction, and any similarities to people living, dead or dying is purely accidental. But there is a real milonga there every Monday night – check it out!

  Death of a Tango Dancer originally appeared in the King County Library Foundation’s Take Time to Read Program. Thanks to Chapple Langemack from KCLS for originally suggesting this project, and to Lynne Heitman, who kindly commented on early drafts. And a special thanks to my team at Booktrope for bringing this story to you: Laura Bastian, Kate Burkett, Loretta Matson, and Cathy Shaw.

  Click here to listen to the soundtracks used in the story.

  Antonia returns (who could stop her?)

  Antonia’s adventures continue in Dead on Her Feet, the first full-length book in my tango mystery series.

  Here’s an excerpt:

  PROLOGUE

  Chattahoochee River National Recreation Area, Atlanta

  THE ELEGANTLY SUITED ANTIQUES DEALER stood on a slab of bedrock jutting out into the Chattahoochee River and gazed out at Devil’s Race Course Shoals. The water level had been unseasonably low th
at July so he had been able to walk out practically into the middle of the channel without wetting his dress shoes.

  In a few minutes the sun would set and the park would officially close. The water enthusiasts would pull their rafts from the rapids and the hikers would turn back on their trails to return to their cars and eventually, reluctantly, to civilization. Thunder rumbled in the distance.

  Getting out into nature, far removed from his normal milieu, normally helped him to clear his mind, but the Argentina business was different. Shameful. What should he do? Calling in the police was out of the question. He tried to play out the alternatives, weighing the consequences of each.

  The thunder grew louder.

  He pulled his cell phone out of his jacket pocket and dialed a number he knew better than to call but the unaccustomed wine he’d drunk at dinner overrode his better judgment. The phone rang five times. Finally a message came on instructing him to leave his name.

  He said, “I need to talk to you. It’s important. Pick up. Pick up.”

  He rambled into the phone at length as darkness fell, failing to notice that the river had begun to rise.

  Buy Dead on Her Feet now!

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