Quickstep to Murder Read Online Free PDF Page A

hurt. The oldies station went to news—“Crucial House Armed Services Committee vote on acquisition of next-generation helicopters for . . . Lady Gaga appearing at . . . Cherry blossoms blooming at Tidal Basin . . .”—and I closed its window. The sounds of an altercation from the ballroom gave me an excuse to leave my desk and see what was going on.
    A shaky soprano voice cried, “But it’s my turn! Maurice waltzed with you last week, Edwina. You can’t expect to have him to yourself—even if you do need the most instruction.”
    “Ladies, please.”
    I peeked into the room to see Maurice Goldberg, our other male instructor, holding up his hands to calm the two octogenarians glaring at each other. Two couples of similar vintage practiced a stiff waltz pattern around the combatants. A handsome Great Dane splotched with black and white snoozed under the window, heavy muzzle resting on his front legs, one ear twitching. Ballroom dancing apparently wasn’t as interesting as reminding cats who was boss or terrorizing the squirrels in the park. We didn’t really have a pet policy and sometimes women brought their Yorkies or Malteses tucked into tote bags, so I felt it was only fair to allow the Great Dane to observe classes. I didn’t want to be guilty of size discrimination. As long as the pets were well behaved, I didn’t mind having them around; in fact, I liked it.
    Maurice, who admitted to being sixty but who I guessed was at least a decade older, had been a dance host on a cruise ship for many years before coming to work for Graysin Motion not long after we opened. His smoothed-back white hair, furrowed where the comb plowed through it, and perpetual tan reminded me a bit of George Hamilton. With his suave air, practiced charm, and natty double-breasted blazers, he brought in a ton of business from moneyed women of a certain age who were looking for a little tingle with their tango.
    As I watched, the taller woman with thinning hair who probably remembered voting for FDR shoved a shorter, well-padded dowager who clung to Maurice’s arm. “You take back that snide remark about my needing more instruction, Mildred Kensington.”
    “At your age, you should be grateful you can still walk. There’s nothing to be ashamed of in not being able to waltz any better than Hoover.” The pseudosweet words came with an equally false smile.
    The Great Dane raised his head and cocked it at the sound of the quarreling voices.
    “Hoover? The president? What are you going on about, Mildred?” Edwina flapped her hand dismissively, a multicarat diamond on her gnarled finger catching the sunlight. “You’re gaga. Your grandchildren should have insisted you stay in that home they found for you last year. Of course, being incontinent does get you kicked out of some—”
    “Hoover, my Great Dane,” Mildred said, nodding toward the massive dog.
    There was a gasp from the other couples who had abandoned all pretense of dancing and were watching the Edwina and Mildred show as avidly as if they were sitting in Ford’s Theater.
    “Ladies, please,” Maurice said again, stepping between them as Edwina wound up to throw a punch at the smug Mildred. No genteel slaps for her, apparently.
    The dog lowered his head to his legs again, apparently deciding his intervention wasn’t necessary, that Maurice had things under control.
    “Did you need me to help demonstrate?” I asked, deciding it was time to break it up. Visions of our insurance skyrocketing if one of the old dears broke a hip moved me forward.
    “Thank you, my dear Anastasia,” Maurice said.
    No matter how many times I asked him to call me Stacy, he insisted on using my full name and treated me like I was deposed Russian royalty.
    “We were just about to embark on a waltz.”
    He used the remote to cue up the music and took my hand. We circled the floor several times—I enjoyed waltzing with Maurice because of his gliding step and strong lead—and finished with a