Dead on Her Feet (An Antonia Blakeley Tango Mystery Book 1) by Lisa Fernow Page B

group class as a participant and she was determined to make it a success.
    Velocity Studio smelled of Murphy’s Oil Soap, but in an hour, with twenty or so people dancing, it would smell like a locker room despite the tubercular fan wheezing away in the back.
    Antonia fiddled with the CD player and, dissatisfied with her original choice, switched to D’Arienzo. She wanted her students to feel a clear beat and D’Arienzo’s rhythms were cheerful and unmistakable. “El Portenito” was one of her favorites.
    At least her students were making progress on the navigation front, managing to stay in their own lanes, except for Bobby who traveled a more erratic orbit sort of like an asteroid, although she wasn’t clear if asteroids had orbits or if they just randomly hurtled through space.
    Roland’s dance had improved materially since his most recent trips to BA. Navigating on crowded floors at the milongas had forced him into a simpler vocabulary, and while he still indulged in the odd showy move, he was starting to understand that it wasn’t about steps it was about the feeling you put into them. Barbara seemed to be enjoying the results, judging from the astonished pleasure on her face.
    Christian slouched by one of the café tables. Today’s t-shirt choice, the Grateful Dead, meant he was feeling reasonably mellow.
    She went to check on him. “Ready?”
    He looked down at his feet and polished the floor with his toe, testing the suede sole of his new dance shoes. “Ha ha. It’ll take me thirty years to learn to walk.”
    Shawna breezed in, still in her flight attendant’s uniform, tresses swept in a chignon, each hair perfectly into order. Despite the heat she looked perfectly cool; Antonia never understood how she managed it. “Sorry I’m late.” She darted into the ladies room and emerged a few minutes later in her usual cotton tee and yoga pants, having washed off the mask of makeup required by her profession.
    Antonia promptly hailed her. “I need your help.”
    “Ant, really.” Shawna waved her off. “None of your schemes. I had a rotten flight.”
    “Christian’s feeling wallflowery. I need you to make his first class a success without him thinking I rigged it. He thinks I interfere enough as it is.”
     Shawna faced the mirror and extended one hand high over her head, then the other, using the bar to steady her. “He’s right,” she said to Antonia’s reflection.
    “Just build up his confidence, that’s all I ask.”
    “How do you suggest I do that?”
    “Dance with him. Talk to him about something he knows. Ask him to help you with your computer. You know how long it takes you to send out those e-mails to the tango community. Maybe he can help you automate the process or something.”
    Shawna placed one heel on the ballet bar and settled into a stretch. “That would be something, all right,” she said, bringing her nose to her knee.
    Antonia stooped so her face was level with Shawna’s. “Humor me?”
    Shawna shook her head ruefully as she switched legs. “I can see I’ll get no peace until I agree.”
    Antonia flagged Christian down and he shuffled over. “Why don’t you warm up with Shawna?”
    “I’m really crappy.”
    Shawna turned from the bar. “Everybody was new once. The men you saw at El Abrazo danced every night for years to get where they are.” She opened her arms, inviting Christian to embrace her.
    Christian shrugged. “Kowabunga.” He placed his right arm across her back but instead of meeting her sternum he looked down, turning his body into a human comma.
    “It’s okay,” Shawna said.
    “I don’t want to step on you.”
    “Don’t worry, you won’t.”
    Bobby and his partner listed dangerously near. “It’s true,” he yodeled joyfully over his shoulder to Christian. “I never step on Shawna’s feet. Don’t know why.”
    Antonia knew why. Shawna was a good dancer and knew how to get out of the way. But with Bobby she back-led. Followers weren’t