She nodded, puzzled. “Yes.” She sat in the uncomfortable straight chair, hands clenching and unclenching on the wooden arms. That revelation opened up all sorts of thoughts, but I didn’t have time to question her further right now. With mere minutes to go before I missed the call for our first heat, I freed tonight’s gown from its plastic wrapping, dropped it over my head, and wriggled it down over my hips. Turning with a swish of fabric, I was gratified by the look on Victoria’s face.
“You look beautiful,” she said.
Since Vitaly and I hadn’t had time to have matching costumes made, he was going with a basic black tux and I was wearing this white gown with black flowers splashed across the fabric and accented with jet stones that gave the dress a certain heft that weighed on me, but in a good way. A few years back, chiffon and feathers had been all the rage for smooth competitions, but feathers were out now and stones were in, which I appreciated. Cap sleeves showed off my toned arms, and a scooped neck and back displayed cleavage and creamy skin. My blond hair was still in the updo, but I’d decorated it with black-beaded combs to match the dress. Faux diamonds dangled from my ears and flashed from the choker at the base of my neck. It’s basically impossible to pile on too much bling in the ballroom dancing world.
“Thanks,” I said. I eyed her with concern, feeling somehow as if I’d inherited her from Rafe, like I needed to help her because he had been going to. A tightness inside of me that I hadn’t been consciously aware of eased with the realization that Rafe hadn’t been trying to raise money to run off with another man’s wife, buy drugs, or pay off a gambling debt. It had hurt to think badly of him and I was relieved to find out he’d been scraping together money to help a friend. “Look, I’ve got to go down now and I won’t be done until around eleven. There’s so much more we need to talk about. Can you wait?”
“I have nowhere else to go,” Victoria said simply.
“Order some room service,” I said, wondering if she even had enough money to eat, “and charge it to the room. Watch a movie or something. Your husband has no reason to suspect you’re here, and we can talk about what to do after I’m done dancing.”
“Rafe talked about how kind you were,” Victoria said with a small smile.
“Did he?” For some reason, the thought made me very sad.
Downstairs, Vitaly waited for me, his skin practically twitching with impatience. “You are being very late,” he said, grabbing my hand and pulling me toward the ballroom. He peered at me sideways as we hustled into the room, now filled with a full gallery of spectators. “But you are looking completely satisfactory.”
Wow… satisfactory. “I was aiming for beautiful,” I said with mock disappointment, “or maybe elegant and sophisticated.”
He grinned, displaying his perfect teeth. “You are accrediting Vitaly.”
Did that mean I was a credit to him? Or that I owed my appearance to him? I decided it didn’t matter as we stepped onto the dance floor and that indefinable change came over him, an electric charge that made him snap with energy and charm. A healthy round of applause greeted all of us and the announcer called out, “Quickstep.” As the music started, I focused on the dancing, forcing all thoughts of Victoria’s situation and Rafe’s murder from my mind. Dancing with Vitaly was a pleasure, with none of the tension that had spoiled things between me and Rafe. I let myself flow with the music, responding to Vitaly’s lead almost effortlessly, and was happy with how we performed.
When the evening’s heats came to a close, however, I gave Vitaly a kiss on the cheek, turned down his and John’s offer of a drink in the bar, and hurried upstairs to continue my conversation with Victoria. Slipping my shoes off in the elevator, I wiggled my toes, which sighed with relief. Competitions are murder on the feet. I traipsed barefoot down the hall to my room. The murmur of the television reached me as I fumbled for my key card. Pushing open the door, I called softly, “I’m back.”
No response other than the annoying sales pitch of an infomercial. It took me mere seconds to check the room and bathroom. Victoria was gone. And so was my wallet.
I seethed for the better part of an hour, wanting to call someone and vent. I couldn’t call Danielle because it was too late. She was meeting me for breakfast, though-she liked to watch me “do that dance thing,” as she called it, when I was competing close to home-and I went over and over my encounter with Victoria in my mind so I could lay it all out for Danielle. Scrubbing off my makeup, I ordered a bowl of soup and a salad from room service-I was famished-and watched reruns of Gilligan’s Island with my feet in a bowl of Epsom salts until I calmed down enough to fall asleep.
My alarm went off way too early and it took several layers of concealer to cover up the dark circles under my eyes. The gold pro-am heats were this morning-“gold” being the division for advanced students, some of whom were good enough to turn pro-and I donned the limegreen Latin costume with the fringe, for competing with Mark Downey. After calling my credit card company to report the stolen card and to arrange for a replacement, I scuffed into my slippers, tucked my shoes under my arm, and went down to breakfast, grateful I could charge it to my room since I had no money.
Usually, I can spot Danielle’s red mop across a crowded room. In the dining room full of flamboyant dance costumes and hairstyles, however, it was her taupe sweater and charcoal pants that stood out. Over a bowl of oatmeal (me) and a plate of eggs Benedict with hash browns (definitely not me), Danielle exclaimed over yesterday’s events.
“So this Taryn girl’s dad tried to kill her dance partner?”
“Looked like it to me,” I said.
“And then you met this Victoria person and she told you Rafe was helping her escape from her husband?”
I nodded, pouring skim milk over my oatmeal and mixing in a spoonful of raisins. On a Saturday morning, the hotel didn’t have much in the way of business clientele, so almost everyone in the dining room was involved with the competition in one way or another. I scanned for Mark Downey but didn’t see him yet.
“Did you believe her?”
“About what?”
“Any of it.” Danielle gestured impatiently with her fork. “Doesn’t it seem a bit unlikely that she hadn’t heard about Rafe’s death? I mean, come on. No one’s that out of touch in this day and age.”
“She seemed surprised and upset.” Was I a gullible idiot for buying her story about no TV, no phone? No, I’d heard Rafe talk about the cabin-it was primitive with a capital P.
“Yeah, just like she seemed helpless and confused… right up until she stole your wallet and disappeared on you.”
I shrugged slightly, conceding the point. “I still think she was genuinely scared of her husband.”
“Yeah, well, from what you’ve told me, he sounds like a nasty guy. But killing her because she wants to leave him? Doesn’t the guy have any pride? He needs to man up and pretend he doesn’t care. Have you considered the possibility that this chick killed Rafe?” Danielle gave me a serious look over a forkful of dripping eggs Benedict.
I’d considered every possible contender for Rafe’s murder during my sleepless hours last night, from Victoria to Héctor to a time-traveling assassin from the future. “I considered it,” I said, “but I don’t know why she would. He was helping her.”
“So she says,” Danielle said significantly. “Maybe he was going to tell Bazán where she was.”
“Why would he do that?” I frowned at her. “That wouldn’t be like Rafe. And it doesn’t mesh with him scrounging around for money.” And selling Sherry Indrebo’s flash drive to her opponent, I thought. “Listen to this, though: Victoria told me that Rafe knew a place to get her a gun.”