“Bedside table.”
“Bingo.”
“Point taken.” His brows drew together as he thought. “So if someone went to the trouble of stealing your gun, then Rafael’s death was premeditated, not a crime of passion. Although… something was bothering Rafael.”
“I got that feeling, too,” I said, staring at him. “He didn’t used to worry about money, but recently he was obsessed by it, trying to cut costs at Graysin Motion, trying to talk me into having kids’ hip-hop and tap classes and an annual recital. What did he say when he called you?”
“Nothing specific.”
I eyed him, wondering if he was telling the truth. He had stretched his long legs out and let his head rest against the bench’s back so I couldn’t read his expression in profile. “So he just called up, told you he was making out his will in your favor, and hung up? And you said-what? ‘Have a nice day’?”
“Pretty much,” Tav said, turning his head slightly to face me, a slight smile quirking his lips as he took in my frustration.
“Liar.”
“I am wounded.” He put a hand to his heart, but his expression told me he was only making fun of me. “Actually,” he said as I jumped to my feet with an impatient exclamation, “I tried to get him to talk, but he said he had to go and hung up.”
“And you left it at that.”
“I did.” His expression grew somber, his sensuous lips folded into a thin line. “Now I wish I had pushed him harder, called him back.”
I could understand that. I didn’t feel I knew him well enough to offer any words of comfort or absolution, though, so I stayed silent. After a moment, he rose and said, “We should be getting back. I’ve got a meeting later to prepare for.”
“What do you do?” I asked, stuffing my lunch debris into a trash can. We headed back toward my house and I caught him examining the ornate doorways and cornices and wrought-iron fences on the row houses we passed.
“I’m in the import-export business.”
“Oh.” Part of me had hoped he’d say “I’m an internationally acclaimed ballroom dancer.” I knew that wasn’t even a possibility, though, because if he were that good I’d’ve heard of him.
“Do you dance?” I asked.
He looked down at me, a rueful smile curving his lips. “Not a step. Football is my game-what you call soccer.”
“Oh.”
“I am a huge disappointment to you, right?” He didn’t sound like it bothered him.
“No,” I said. “It’s not that. But if you’re not a dancer, inheriting Rafe’s share of Graysin Motion has got to be more of an inconvenience than anything, doesn’t it?” Which pretty much put him out of the running as the murderer, as far as I was concerned. Not that I really thought he’d traveled from Argentina to D.C. to put a bullet in Rafe in my ballroom.
He put a hand to my elbow to guide me away from a skateboarder careening down the sidewalk. “Not necessarily. Are you interested in owning the business outright?”
I didn’t know if he was asking me to make an offer or just sounding me out, but I said honestly, “I can’t afford it. We aren’t turning a profit yet-probably won’t be for another couple of years at the earliest-and even though it’s worth less now than before Rafe got killed-”
“Really?” Tav sounded interested.
“Definitely. A lot of a studio’s worth is in its reputation, its name, the success of its pros and students. Rafe was a big draw-a huge draw-for us. We’ll lose some students to other studios and pros now that he’s dead. Also, I need a new dance partner. I’ve got one tentatively lined up-on approval, you might say-but it’s unrealistic to expect that we’ll do as well at Blackpool after only a few weeks together as Rafe and I would have done.” I pushed a hand through my hair and sighed. “Frankly, the studio’d be in better shape if I’d gotten shot; a male pro brings in a lot more business than a female because the biggest student demographic is women.”
“I am sure you bring in more than your share of business,” Tav said, his tone more assessing than admiring.
We turned the corner on to my block as he spoke, and the sight of the black limousine hovering across the street from my house shocked an exclamation from me. The conviction that whoever was in the limo knew something about Rafe’s death grabbed hold of me and I broke into a run. The car idled at the curb like before, windows rolled up, wholly anonymous. My momentum almost carried me into the passenger side door, but I stopped in time. Knocking on the window, I called, “I need to talk to you about Rafe. Just tell me what you know about him. Please.”
A British-accented voice from behind me said, “I don’t know anyone named Rafe, but I’d like to get to know you, luv.”
I whirled to find myself facing a cadaverous-looking man in his late sixties being escorted out of the spa, someone I vaguely recognized as a seventies rock star having a successful comeback tour. Resurrection tour was more like it, I thought, scanning his gaunt face. Wearing leather pants and with highlighted hair sticking out at all angles, he gave me a rakish grin as the chauffeur came around to open the door for him. “Whaddaya say?” The rocker gestured toward the interior of the limo.
I stepped back, appalled by my mistake. “I’m so sorry. I thought you were-”
Suddenly, Tav was at my side, his hand on my shoulder. “Stacy?”
The rocker gave us a knowing smile, raised a hand, and said “Ta, then,” as he slid into the limo. It glided away from the curb and I saw the license plate: Virginia. Not diplomatic plates.
My face blazed with heat, and I scuttled across the street to my house, weaving my way between cars stopped at the light. Reaching the other side, I realized Tav had followed me. I felt like an utter fool and was doubly embarrassed to think that he had witnessed what must have looked like my frenzied pursuit of a musician old enough to be my grandfather.
“I’m not really a rock groupie,” I said.
“I did not think you were.” He studied my face. “What was that all about?”
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” I said wearily.
“Try me.”
What did I have to lose? He probably already thought I was mentally unstable and, really, was it any more humiliating to confess to spying on Rafe’s trysts or meetings or whatever they were in the suspicious limo than to have Tav think I lusted after Sir Whoever, the hasbeen rock star? I unlocked my door. “Come on in.”
As I pushed my door open, a voice called my name from half a block away. “Stacy!”
I looked around to see Mark Downey hustling toward us, dance bag in hand. His sandy hair flopped across his forehead and he slowed as he came up to us, his brow wrinkling as he studied Tav.
Glancing guiltily at my watch, I told Tav, “We’ll have to talk later. I’ve got a practice session scheduled with Mark. Mark Downey, Tav Acosta.”
“I thought you might be related to Rafe,” Mark said, offering his hand. “Your brother? What an awful thing. My condolences.”
“My half brother,” Tav said. “Thank you.” He looked at me. “We will continue our conversation later, then?”
“Rafe was your brother?” I asked, confused that he hadn’t clarified the relationship earlier.
“Half.” Tav’s face closed off.
Mark glanced from me to Tav. “I didn’t mean to interrupt…”
I detected a slightly huffy note, which was justified since I’d already canceled on him once and almost missed this practice. “You didn’t, Mark,” I said. “Let’s get started.” I smiled apologetically at Tav and started up the stairs to the studio, Mark behind me.
An hour into our ninety-minute session, we paused for a water break. “So,” Mark said, “that guy is Rafe’s brother? I suppose he’s here to make arrangements about the body and stuff?”
“That, and to check out the studio,” I said, draping a towel across the back of my neck. I used the end to blot sweat off my face.