Dead on Her Feet (An Antonia Blakeley Tango Mystery Book 1) Read Online Free Page A

Rothenberg’s widow, those who knew it recited the traditional condolence, “May God comfort you among all the mourners of Zion and Jerusalem.”
    Lauren pulled a tissue out of her purse and wiped her hands.
    ***
    Morrow helped settle Rothenberg’s ex-wife on one of the benches that lined the main path through Oakland Cemetery. She gathered her trench coat around her and lit up a menthol cigarette. Jackson was off on his mission and the other mourners had dispersed, leaving only the honored dead, and they weren’t about to complain of secondhand smoke.
    She took a drag and exhaled. “He kept saying into the machine ‘pick up, pick up,’ that he needed to talk to me about something. He was rambling. I thought he was drunk and that wasn’t like him. If I hadn’t been out of town I’d have been there for him.” Her voice faltered as she pulled out a cassette tape and handed it over. “I didn’t check my messages until I got home. How was I supposed to know it would be the last time I heard his voice? I could just kill him.”
    Morrow offered her his handkerchief and she used it to touch up the area under her eyes where her mascara had run. They sat in silence for a while. He wondered what had caused the marriage to break up. Money. Infidelity. The so-called growing apart which really meant the sex had dried up. None of the obvious explanations seemed to fit. “You said he accused his business partner of something. Did he say anything specific?”
    “He’d found something out about Roland’s activities in Argentina. Something that brought shame to his reputation, that he had to atone for.” She waved her hand, trailing smoke in her wake. “Listen to the tape.” She fought back her tears and stubbed her cigarette out on the brick path. She inspected the butt and flicked it away. “We hadn’t spoken in years. That’s the point. Miles wouldn’t have called unless it was important.”
    She rummaged around in her enormous handbag, came up with a nearly empty pack of cigarettes, extracted one and tried to light it but her fingers shook so badly she couldn’t get the match to work. He relieved her of the matchbook and did the honors. She nodded her thanks. “But, mind you, if there was any funny business Miles had no part of it. He was a real mensch. I warned him not to go into business with that louse. Roland Guest is responsible for this, I just know it.”
     “Guest was nowhere near the Chattahoochee that night,” Morrow said gently, knowing from experience she wouldn’t listen.
    “Maybe Roland didn’t push Miles into the river, but just the same, he killed my husband. Roland has it all. Smarts, looks, breeding. But everything always came too easily to him and the schmuck’s got no moral compass. None.”
    “Who else might know about Roland’s activities?”
    “There was some Argentine aristocrat who helped introduce Miles and Roland around when they first started going to Latin America. Don’t remember his name, it’s too long ago. He’s in Buenos Aires somewhere. Talk to him.”
    The drizzle had changed to rain. Morrow closed his notebook. “I’ll call and see what I can find out.”
    Lauren rose to her feet and hoisted her purse strap over her head and across her shoulder, bandolier style. “That’s it? You’re not going down there?” Her black-limned eyes shone with hurt and fury. “Do you really think anyone will talk to you on the phone? I have to know what happened.”
    Lauren deserved to know what had driven her ex-husband to the river in the first place. But the department wouldn’t authorize him to go to Argentina without evidence of a crime. Unless the tox exam came back with something or there was something concrete on the tape or in Rothenberg’s records he’d have to clear the case, leaving the poor woman with nothing to help her make sense of her grief.
    Once the hows and the whats are known, as a policeman you were supposed to move on, leaving the whys to pile up until