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

bag, picked up her gym bag and purse, and stalked to the exit. The door banged shut on the shortest engagement in history. Hal-le-lu-jah.
    Roland started after her. He stopped. Pivoted. Looked back at Nathalie.
    Nathalie stuck her nose in the air, savoring her victory. “Roland, darling, what did you ever see in that stewardess?” She turned and sashayed towards the exit, a modern day Delilah, leaving Roland little option but to smile weakly and follow.
     
     

CHAPTER 10
    Love without a Premonition
     
    BOBBY GLASS WALKED the three short blocks from the studio to the American Roadhouse Café with some of the other students, as was their after-class ritual. He’d let Barbara, Antonia and Christian go on ahead. He needed a moment to recover. The whole scene had been terribly awkward, particularly since he might have spared Shawna the pain of a public confrontation. Had he realized the significance of what he’d seen. Not that it was his place to interfere.
    Poor Shawna. She’d done the only dignified thing.
    The one bright spot was that Roland Guest would probably stop coming to class and leave him a clear field with Barbara. Not romantically, of course, given their twelve-year age difference. Dancing with Barbara was more than enough. Dayenu , as the Passover song went. Be grateful for the gifts you have.
    Antonia reached the entrance first. She waited for everyone to catch up then pushed the door open and shepherded them all through.
    Inside the noise was at a fever pitch. The Braves were winning on all four television sets and a few drunken fans were singing, obscurely, “Hail to the Redskins.” The smell of fish and chips wafted his way, which was deceptive advertising since he had yet to find a good piece of fried cod since he’d returned from sabbatical in England. The floor felt tacky underfoot. He could really do with a beer.
    The hostess showed them to their usual table and they settled in. Barbara ordered a barbeque sandwich and tried to get him to join her but he reminded her he didn’t eat pork. He asked for a hamburger. When Antonia ordered her bacon cheeseburger rare, the new waiter, who seemed barely old enough to hold his job legally, suspended his pencil over his order pad.
    “Rare?”
    “Yes, rare.”
    “I can’t, ma’am, it’s against the law.”
    “I accept the health risk,” she said. “Just give it to me rare, you know, rare like the cow is still fighting, rare like the blush of a trollop, rare like intelligent life on this planet, rare, rare, rare, with the works, and fries, and—oh, I almost forgot—a pitcher of beer for the table.”
    Bobby interjected, “Well chilled, please.” He really enjoyed Antonia’s uninhibited use of language but sometimes she missed the essentials.
    The waiter scribbled something on his notepad and bolted to the sanity of the kitchen.
    Antonia leaned back into her chair and stretched her arms over her head. “I love messing with those guys.”
    Barbara dug through her purse, probably looking for a handkerchief. Her shirt stuck to her skin and the freckles on her arms showed through the white cotton. “Where did this precious Nathalie LeFebre come from, anyway?”
     “Trasnochando.” Antonia answered. “She was with Eduardo, told us they were practically engaged. Which I seriously doubt after today.”
    Bobby remembered Eduardo Sanchez. Sanchez had impressed him as being a decent fellow. Nathalie LeFebre, on the other hand, was a specimen outside his experience. The closest analogy he could think of was the female undergraduates who preyed on professors, perhaps attracted to the status of the position or, more unethically, hoping to exchange favors for grades, but nothing like that had ever happened to him.
    “She thinks she’s Inca royalty,” Barbara said, blotting the perspiration from her neck. “Too good to touch the ground, is she? I’ll knock her out of her golden litter.”
    “Nathalie wants to see my writing,” Christian said to no