Luna Tango Page 10

  ‘They’re beautiful.’

  ‘On the surface, sí. Although darkness hides behind the beauty.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘See this photo?’ He tapped a photo next to him.

  Dani angled her body to get a better look. The image was too far away, so she rose and stood next to Carlos. Gazing at the picture, she studied the strong branches supporting eucalyptus leaves that fanned out over the park bench. ‘It looks like a cave. Nature’s perfect canopy, huh?’

  ‘This is the tree in the park near where Eduardo Canziani lived. You remember the man in the photo you snooped on, yes?’

  How could she not? She winced inwardly. ‘Yes.’

  ‘It is also the same park where Louisa Gilchrist and Roberto Vega met in secret. That tree you call beautiful witnessed a plot to murder Eduardo Canziani.’

  CHAPTER

  11

  ‘Do you really think they did it?’ Dani sat on the chair and skulled the last of her lukewarm coffee. Out the window, snippets of sunlight cut through the grey sky.

  ‘Louisa and Roberto? All the evidence points to this.’ His tone held unwavering certainty. ‘If they are alive, and if they are found, they should be going to the courts and thrown in the jail until their deaths. They killed Argentina’s greatest musician and composer and deprived the world of a special gift.’

  ‘But what if new evidence proves they didn’t do it?’ Not that she had a reason to believe they hadn’t.

  ‘You think they are innocent?’

  ‘I don’t know. I haven’t looked into it much yet—’

  ‘Yet? You will? What about the articles we are working on for Tourism Argentina? You will throw this away to write about Argentina’s biggest scandal and bring disgrace upon my countrymen? Eduardo Canziani’s death is Argentina’s concern—it is not the business of the foreigners.’ Carlos’s spine straightened and a wall shot up between them.

  ‘You don’t have a problem if I write about the tango your way but you have an issue with me doing my own investigation about a cold case? Don’t you want to know what happened or, if Louisa and Roberto are guilty, find them and bring them to justice?’ His change in attitude surprised her and the lovely time she’d just spent in his company disintegrated into a steaming pile of dog do. No way was she telling him about Iris.

  ‘It should only concern my people.’

  ‘I get you’re patriotic but I don’t understand why outsiders discovering new information is a problem.’

  ‘You would not understand.’ His eyes lost their spark and his expression turned stony.

  ‘Try me.’

  ‘It is too complicated. I am asking you to leave this story alone. It is not for the gringos to stick their noses in.’ In his mouth, the word gringos didn’t sound like a term of endearment.

  Rather than get offended like she normally would, Dani displayed calmness for fear Carlos would slip from her grip. If he remained annoyed, she could lose the man who could help change her career, and hopefully, life. Play it right, Dani.

  ‘Okay, I hear what you’re saying,’ she said.

  ‘Good. Do not ask more questions about the Canziani case.’ He crossed his arms, signalling the conversation’s end and, Dani suspected, their blossoming friendship.

  They sat in silence while the clanking of utensils and crockery filled the air, accompanied by the low mumble of patrons. Unable to bear the tension, she said, ‘I think I might go. I need to get more work done.’

  ‘On the Canziani case?’ He stared into the distance, not meeting her eyes.

  ‘No. I’m concentrating on the Tourism Argentina piece. The Canziani thing was a distraction. You know how journalists are, can’t keep their noses out of stuff.’ She kept her tone light.

  ‘Right.’

  She stood and waited but his eyes wouldn’t meet hers.

  ‘So I’ll see you soon?’ She leant over and kissed him gently on the cheek, as was the Argentine custom.

  Dani left the café, hurt by his stony reaction. Their time had gone beautifully until she’d spoiled it with her idiotic musings about a cold case. Maybe Carlos was right. Perhaps she should leave it to the Argentines. Flashes of Louisa’s smiling face haunted Dani and she shook her head, unable to budge the image. How the hell could a photo of a woman from so many years ago have such an impact?

  The early morning heat slapped against her skin and she scrounged in her handbag for sunglasses. Putting them on, she noticed the women’s attire had changed from sequins and stilettos to business suits and stilettos. No matter what time of the day or night, Argentine women looked fabulous. Glancing down at her jeans and T-shirt, Dani shrugged then realised she’d donned her red heels instead of her faithful runners as she’d raced out the door this morning. Argentina had influenced her already. Just how much influence she would allow, Dani wasn’t sure.

  She turned and hustled through the streets of Recoleta, barely noticing the baroque buildings streaked with smog, fuelled by a desire to get to her hotel, have a cold shower, and collapse onto fresh white bedsheets.

  As she marched along, she tried to let go of the angst about pushing Carlos too far. Although what annoyed her more was allowing an attraction for Carlos to form, especially since she wasn’t entirely over Adam. Perhaps Carlos as rebound man made total sense. After all, his aloofness, and him living in another country, meant Dani could have a fling, get over Adam, disappear to New York and get a new life. It all sounded so clinical and, really, executing that plan didn’t appeal to her one bit, because her intuition told her the attraction to Carlos was more than fleeting.

  ‘Men. Pfft.’

  A gaggle of young women in tight short skirts holding sequined clutches stared at her. Dani gave a lopsided smile. They giggled and went on their merry way.

  She powered along with the hope that moving forwards physically would encourage her mind to do the same. Easier said than done. Iris, Stella, Adam, and the pressure to produce a kick-ass story—they all melded into one heavy ball in her stomach. She stopped in the middle of the path, her energy drained.

  ‘Che boluda, ¿qué hacés?’

  She turned and found an old man in an immaculately pressed suit. His gnarled hands gripped a dog leash but no animal was present. Scowling, he directed more expletives at her.

  ‘Perdóname,’ she said. Forgive me, I’m sorry. Of course she was bloody sorry. Sorry for a helluva lot of things. Blocking the path of an octogenarian was the least damaging on her sorry list.

  He huffed past and she gazed at the wrought-iron balconies. Buenos Aires had many layers, some astoundingly beautiful, and one needed to stop and appreciate its grandeur. Her breath caught in her throat and she coughed, resigning herself to the fact the city might be gorgeous but it sure as hell stunk like the inside of an exhaust pipe.

  A cool breeze skimmed across her skin and the scent of rain hung in the air as thunderclouds swirled above. Tango music drifted into her ears, so close it drowned out the serenade of car horns. Closing her eyes, she lost herself in the moment, a little peace washing through her mind and over her weary body. Then the bandoneón cut in and her jaw clenched.

  Her phone beeped, signalling an incoming email. The way heat rushed across her cheeks, she had a fair idea who it was from.

  Picking up pace, Dani crossed the street, artfully dodging the traffic that rarely stopped for anyone, even if pedestrians had right of way. Skipping onto the kerb, she turned a corner just as lightning flashed across the sky. Half a second later a crack of thunder reverberated above and fat drops fell, splattering everyone in sight.

  She dashed to the nearest canopy, which belonged to a five-star hotel. Taking cover from the deluge, Dani looked around for a taxi, but because she needed one, none were available. The scent of coffee and chocolate flooded her nostrils and she peered through the hotel’s entrance. A young barista stood behind a counter, polishing a coffee machine with care. Even though she’d already consumed half her body weight in caffeine over the last
twenty-four hours, she felt the need for more. What harm could it do?

  The barista gave her a welcoming smile as she entered the café and a waiter appeared to guide her to a table. She ordered a coffee and waited for the barista to work his magic. There weren’t any newspapers lying around like in most cafés in the city, so Dani’s mind turned to the message on the phone that was burning a hole in her pocket. She stared out the window, watching people jump swollen gutters and dashing for cover. Then she studied the brass fittings on the bar and the grains in the antique wood.

  Unable to bear it any longer, she pulled out the phone and checked her inbox. Sure enough, an email from Adam.

  Dani,

  I’m watching this space like you asked and all I can see are blank pages in my mag. Management is on my tail and I can’t wait. You promised me something excellent. Something big. And I need you to deliver. You’ve got three weeks to inbox me with the stories. And, just to add sunshine to your day, I’m reminding you Tourism Argentina’s generous offer to sponsor your accommodation finishes soon so you might need to pitch a tent in the park. Sorry I don’t have better news but business is business.

  Cheers,

  Adam

  More bloody cheers as a sign-off and no reference to her emotional state in this email. Fabulous. It was all so businesslike, so matter of fact, so—cold. Adam’s missive had changed things dramatically. Her gut told her even though Carlos and Gualberto had offered to help her put an original spin on the tango and the bandoneón stories, the Canziani case had a much wider scope for increasing circulation. The answer seemed obvious: go big, or go home. But she needed new evidence, or to find Louisa and Roberto. The case had sat for decades, so how the hell could she find concrete leads in a few weeks? It was a massive risk but, being brokenhearted and desperate to make a name for herself, going out on a limb seemed logical. She’d never been averse to putting herself out there, so why should now be different? It was probably guilt slapping her in the face because Tourism Argentina had funded her stay and flights in exchange for stories on tango as a lifestyle. There was no way she’d have time to do both well.

  The waiter arrived with her coffee and a media luna, a biscuit in the shape of a half moon. She smiled her thanks, took a sip of coffee and stared out at the sodden street, where cars zoomed through puddles and soaked passers-by. An older gentleman entered the café and the scent of fresh rain reminded her of when she was a kid, squealing as she splashed in puddles with her grandma looking on, barely a smile gracing her lips.

  Stella.

  No matter how angry her grandma acted, Dani missed her. She smiled, wondering how she could let her overactive imagination run so rampant with the idea that Stella and Louisa were possibly related—or the same person. It appealed to Dani’s inquisitive nature, which was great for a career in journalism but not so wonderful for trying to mend fences with her grandma. Dani photo-shopped Stella in her head, erasing the wrinkles and colouring the grey hair to honey blonde. Stella’s almond-shaped eyes, long black lashes that curled at the outer corners and nose with the straight bridge and distinctive dip just before it turned up were identical to Louisa Gilchrist’s. But maybe she was distorting the image to fit her imagination. Dani had no photos of a young Stella to compare as her grandma had lost them when she was a young woman immigrating to Australia from England in the 1950s. But what if—no. Ridiculous.

  Then Stella’s intense dislike of tango crashed in on Dani. Until now, she’d thought Stella’s hostility towards the dance was to do with Iris nicking off to Argentina and building her career. But what if it wasn’t just that? What if Stella was Louisa? Dani had always believed murder was black or white—guilty or not guilty—but if it ever came to pass that Stella was Louisa, Dani’s view would turn to grey, without a doubt. She shook her head, convinced the tiredness was sending her crazy. No way in hell could she imagine her round-faced grandmother killing anyone, no matter what the provocation.

  ‘So this is what it feels like, teetering on the edge of insanity,’ she muttered to herself and sipped the strong liquid. She let the coffee slide down her throat, revelling in the delicious warmth.

  Dani had to leave well enough alone. Pursuing the Canziani case was ridiculous. Even if she worked twenty-four hours a day and had an army of sleuths investigating, the chances of uncovering anything, or anyone, of value to the case were minimal. It bummed her to drop it but she’d have to pursue the tango and bandoneón stories as originally planned and if that was the case, Dani had better make peace with one very handsome tango instructor.

  CHAPTER

  12

  1953 – Louisa

  Louisa settled onto the only sofa in the room. Striped cotton sheets hung haphazardly in front of the windows, barely blocking out the daylight shining through the thin material. She shifted again, but the lumpy stuffing made it impossible to get comfortable. In the corner of the small room sat Roberto’s bandoneón, a magnificent piece of craftsmanship. When she’d first arrived in Argentina she’d thought the instrument was an accordion, but the Argentines made sure she understood the bandoneón came from a different family and was the heart and soul of tango.

  Getting up, Louisa walked over and crouched in front of Roberto’s prized possession. She ran her fingers over the buttons on both sides, imagining his fingers doing the same. When he played, love and passion poured into this instrument and created a musical magic others could never replicate. The world needed to experience his talent, get lost in his music, and be transported to another realm.

  She spied some papers and an envelope lying on the small table. She could tell from the stamp that the envelope contained yet another missive from Roberto’s only surviving relative, Great Aunt Elda in Milan. According to Roberto, she was a crotchety, God-fearing soul who despised his lifestyle as a musician. But they were family, and in Roberto’s eyes, that meant the world.

  Picking up the other papers, her eyes travelled across the curved lines and squiggles drawn on one sheet. It took her a while to figure out it was a map of Brazil. In the middle of the drawing was the name Chapada do Russo and it was underlined three times. In the top right-hand corner he’d written ‘Louisa’ in a love heart. Smiling, she folded the paper and put it into her pocket. Later, she’d sketch their dream home beside the name of the village then sneak it back into Roberto’s house. She looked forward to his reaction.

  Someone cleared their throat behind her and she stood, smoothed down her dress and turned to face the doorway. Héctor Sosa leant his lanky body against the wall, his dark hair pulled back in the unfashionable ponytail he wore with confidence. The smile lines on his face grew deeper the minute their eyes connected.

  ‘Héctor!’ Louisa rushed over and threw her arms around him. ‘It’s been so long!’

  ‘Yes, yes, it has indeed. Come.’ He took her hand and they sat on the sofa. ‘You look more lovely every time I see you. What is your secret? Ah! Don’t tell me. It is love, yes?’

  Heat rushed across her face. ‘Héctor—’

  ‘You should forget about that scoundrel Roberto and be with me. He’s no use to you. He’s young, no experience. Me, on the other hand ...’ He ran a finger along her arm and she playfully slapped it.

  ‘Enough!’ She laughed and inched away, unable to recall a time when he hadn’t made advances in a joking manner, although, at times, she wondered if there was a smidgen of sincerity in his overtures.

  ‘You and me together, our love is as natural as the sun rising and setting. As the butterflies flapping their wings. As the—’

  ‘Such a poet!’ She laughed. ‘I’ve missed you! How was Uruguay?’

  A dark cloud drifted across his handsome face and he pushed the ponytail over his shoulder. ‘Let us say, it did not turn out how I wished. But I am here, in the presence of beauty and grace. Where is that rogue of yours? He left the door unlocked and I waltzed in. Lucky I didn’t take the priceless china.’ He nodded at two chipped cups and saucers, their white interiors stained
by tea.

  ‘It’s not a palace, but it is home for our most favourite bandoneón player,’ she said.

  ‘Lucky you said this, mi amor, or else I would have to throw you onto the street.’ Roberto strode over and held out his hand to Héctor, who stood and embraced him in a bear hug so strong Roberto’s face flushed red.

  ‘It is good to see you, old friend. I would have called but ...’ Héctor held out his hands in a questioning manner. ‘You live in the dark ages, Roberto. Get a telephone. It would make life much easier.’

  They slapped each other on the back and laughed. Héctor took a seat on the faded chair and Roberto sat next to Louisa on the sofa, gently running his fingers along her arm, unaware Héctor had done the same only a few minutes before. Goosebumps pricked her flesh at Roberto’s touch and shivers ran up her spine. Her heart ached that this moment couldn’t stay forever.

  ‘How was Uruguay?’ Roberto asked with a perfect Uruguayan accent.

  ‘Ha!’ Héctor slapped the chair arm. ‘I am in awe of your talent for mimicking others.’

  ‘It’s because he’s so good at music,’ said Louisa, pointing to her ears. ‘Excellent listening skills.’

  ‘Roberto should listen to me, then.’ Héctor tapped his pipe on the arm of the chair. ‘I want to know what happened at your meeting this morning.’

  ‘I’m staying with Eduardo,’ Roberto said.

  ‘You’re a fool.’ Héctor stuffed tobacco in the pipe and lit it. The small room filled with pungent smoke and Dani went over and opened a window. A light breeze billowed the sheets and she sat next to Roberto again, placing her hand in his.

  ‘I do not have a choice. He pays my way and I’m not going to throw away my dreams because I can’t stand the man who holds the key to my future. As much as I want to go it alone, I haven’t performed live for ages. I can guarantee if I left him my life would be a living nightmare, as he’d make sure no one books me. He practically runs the tango industry here. Hell, he is the tango industry and he’ll still lord it over me when he’s in North America.’