had worked three years as a dancer at one of the central Florida theme parks before coming south. Both were ambitious, wanted to advance in the professional world. Lara Trudeau would have been their competition.
Of course, every female competitor in the dance world would have been in the same position. Assuming that Lara Trudeau had somehow been helped to her demise, she had done so before a crowd of hundreds—a large percentage of them competitors. He could be barking up the wrong tree entirely.
But he had to start somewhere. If Lara Trudeau had been murdered, it had been by someone with whom she had a close relationship. To have her die the way she did, before a crowd of hundreds, a murderer would have had to plan very carefully. And it certainly did seem odd that a woman who had been a student at the school had died from an eerily similar overdose just weeks before, even if she hadn’t been at the studio in some time.
So…
Love. Hate.
The male instructors. Ben Trudeau. The ex-husband. Always a good suspect. Late thirties, tall, attractive, talented, a bit hardened, and, like Lara, growing old for the field of competition. He’d taken a steady teaching job rather than just coaching. Sam Railey, Jane Ulrich’s partner, deeply loyal, determined that they would rise to the top—they had come close together, many times. Justin Garcia, salsa specialist, newest teacher at the studio.
Then there was Lara’s partner, Jim Burke. Not a full time teacher at the studio but a coach, as well. Again, a tall, striking man of thirty, lucky to be chosen to be Lara’s partner. Now alone. With Lara, he flew like an eagle. Without her…he had no partner. He was back to square one. No matter what his talent, Lara had been the driving force of the pairs, the true prima donna of the dance floor. Jim Burke seemed an unlikely candidate as a murderer.
Gordon Henson?
Quinn shook his head. It wasn’t difficult finding motives for most of Lara’s acquaintances and associates. Gordon had gotten Lara started; he gave her space, taught her to move. Had she spurned him, rejected him, made fun of him…threatened him?
He looked across the street again. He had only glanced through the files on the teachers and he had half a dozen scenarios already. He hadn’t even begun to study the student lists.
It was now beginning to get busier over at Suede. He checked his watch. After ten. He was surprised to realize that the waiter at the little café had politely let him sit here, nursing a water, for so long. He started to rise, then paused, watching.
Shannon Mackay was coming down the steps from the side entry to the studio. She had apparently left in a hurry and rushed halfway down, looking behind her as she did so.
Then she stopped, took a deep breath and squared her soldiers.
For a minute she simply stood there. At last she turned and slowly walked back up. She took out a set of keys and made quick work of locking the door, then started down the steps again.
She walked slowly at first. Then, as she neared the bottom, she began rushing again. She reached the sidewalk and took another deep breath. She stared back up the steps, then shook her head.
The doorman at Suede saw her as she stood on the sidewalk. He called out a greeting, and she swung around, greeting him in turn.
Then she disappeared into the club as he opened the door for her.
Very curious behavior, Quinn thought.
He left the café, making sure to leave a generous tip. He would undoubtedly be wanting his table back in the days to come. He stopped by his car long enough to toss in the files he’d been reading, then headed across the street.
The doorman at Suede was jet-black, a good six-three, and pure muscle. He looked at Quinn, frowned, sized him up and down, and decided to let him pass.
Inside, the music was loud.
The bar was to the rear of the building, the dance floor about ten feet from the entrance. The place advertised live music and lived up to the advertising. The room was handsomely appointed, with the walls painted to imitate a sunset. Floor lighting gave the place just enough illumination to make the tables navigable, while spotlights gave a burst of life to the polished dance floor. A Latin trio was playing, and the beat was fast. Tables surrounded the floor on either side, and despite it being a weeknight, most of the tables were filled, though the place wasn’t overcrowded. Scantily clad women on the dance floor gyrated at shocking speeds, some looking good and some not.
Toward the rear of the place, to the left of the bar, he caught sight of Gordon Henson. The thick thatch of white hair on his head was caught in the light, drawing attention to him. Skirting around the dance floor, Quinn saw that his brother was in attendance, along with Bobby Yarborough, one of his classmates from the academy, and Bobby’s new wife, or at least, Quinn assumed it was his wife. He’d never met her. Shannon Mackay was next to Doug, on her other side a tall man in a white tailored shirt and sport jacket, who, in turn, was next to a small woman of about forty, perfectly elegant, but with features so taut they screamed plastic surgery.
Doug, looking across the floor, saw him and, with some surprise, called his name. “Quinn!”
Quinn continued across the room, excusing himself with a quick smile when he nearly collided with a waitress.
“My brother with the two left feet,” Doug teased, rising to greet him with a handshake.
“Hey, now, that’s not really true,” Shannon said, defending him. The words, however, seemed to be a natural reaction; she smiled, but she seemed distracted.
“That’s right. You had your first lesson today, so you’ve met Shannon and Gordon, and of course, you know Bobby.”
Quinn nodded, reaching out to shake Bobby’s hand. Bobby grinned broadly. “Hey, Quinn. You haven’t met my wife, Giselle.”
“Giselle, nice to meet you. Congratulations on your wedding.”
Giselle smiled. “Thank you. It’s amazing. I thought it would never come. Now, I feel as if we’ve been married forever.”
“Ouch,” Bobby said.
She squeezed his arm. “I meant that in the best possible way.”
“Hmm,” Bobby mused, feigning a frown.
“Quinn, these are the doctors Long,” Doug continued. “Richard and Mina.”
He shook hands with the couple. “How nice. Do you work together?”
The petite blonde laughed. “Good heavens, no. Richard is a dermatologist and plastic surgeon. I’m a lowly, hardworking pediatrician.”
“She’s far more noble,” Richard said, grinning.
“You’re the artist,” his wife teased back.
His arm, casually around her shoulders as they sat in the expansive booth, tightened affectionately. “We simply thank God we don’t work together. That way, we get to enjoy the time we do share.”
“Great,” Quinn said.
“Here, please, sit,” Mina Long said, inching closer to her husband.
“I
