The Homicide Hustle (2 page)

“Who’s Tessa?”

“Tessa King. The coproducer. I haven’t met her yet, but she’s Nigel’s partner. She’s
probably got all the empathy of a starving crocodile, just like he does.”

“That’s very funny,” a voice said from the doorway. Maurice and I turned our heads
to see a tall, lanky woman in a designer pantsuit standing in the doorway. Large gray
eyes tilted down a bit at the outside corners and medium brown hair was bobbed at
chin length, looking more like the work of a Super Cuts stylist than the kind of hairdresser
someone wearing Armani could afford.

I got a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. “You’re—”

“Tessa King.”

I winced, stood, and offered my hand. “I’m sorry. That was rude. I—”

She shook my hand strongly and waved away my apology. “No, no. You need to say it
again when the cameras are rolling. It’s good TV. You’re spot on: Nigel’s testy in
the morning until he’s snagged a baby wildebeest.” Her hair fell from a deep side
part, and she swept it aside. “You are?” She extended her hand to Maurice.

Rising, he said, “Maurice Goldberg.
Enchanté
, mademoiselle.” He kissed the tips of her fingers, rather than shaking her hand.

I stared at him. I’d never seen this version of Maurice before. Sure, he was smooth
and charming with all his students, but this. . . . I wondered if this was his cruise
ship persona and, if so, why he’d resurrected it.

“I like you,” she said, running her eyes from his smoothed-back white hair, down his
fit and immaculately clad body, to his soft black practice shoes. “You’d go over big
with our older demographic. You remind me of someone . . .” She snapped her fingers.
“George Hamilton!”

“It’s the tan,” Maurice said.

Tessa laughed, a warm, throaty sound. I already liked her better than Nigel, although
I got the feeling she could bring down a wildebeest or two herself, if the occasion
demanded. Something in the way she squared her shoulders, and the directness of her
gaze, told me her success in the male-dominated world of reality show production was
no accident.

“We’ll make sure you get some screen time,” Tessa promised Maurice.

I couldn’t tell if he was pleased by the prospect or appalled. I had a feeling it
didn’t matter: if Tessa King wanted it to happen, it was going to happen.

Chapter 2

Nigel and Tessa had insisted on filming my “meet cute” with my celebrity partner in
my home, rather than at the studio. “People want to get to know you,” Tessa explained,
poking her head into the kitchen, raising her brows, and then proceeding toward what
Aunt Laurinda had called the “parlor” at the front of the house, trailed by the cameraman.
She surveyed it for a moment, then said, “This is taking minimalism to extremes, isn’t
it?”

I didn’t feel compelled to tell her I’d recently sold most of the fusty, 1930s-era
furniture that had been Great-aunt Laurinda’s. I’d made some decent money from it,
but hadn’t yet gotten around to picking out new furnishings that said “me.” All I’d
bought so far was a comfy chair-and-a-half plus matching ottoman in a goldy-apricot
shade that lit up the empty front room. I’d placed it near the window, where I could
sit and enjoy both the fireplace—which wouldn’t work until I’d gotten a chimney sweep
to do his thing—and the window facing the street. Great-aunt Laurinda looked down
at me—approvingly, I hoped—from the portrait above the fireplace. I couldn’t bring
myself to sell the painting of my aunt as an early twentieth century debutante.

The doorbell donged. “Never mind,” Tessa said. “He’s here. Larry.” She motioned the
cameraman into position.

Rubbing my fingers against my palms, surprisingly nervous, hoping my partner would
be reasonably cooperative and appealing, not obnoxious like the soccer star who’d
been on the previous season, I swung the door inward.

“You must be Stacy. I’m so excited about dancing with you.” The Adonis on the doorstep
leaned forward to kiss my cheek and proffered a handful of tulips, my favorites. Tessa
had wanted me to squeal when meeting my partner, and I’d told her I wasn’t the squealing
type. However, a small squeal escaped before I could stop it.

Zane Savage had kissed me. My hand went involuntarily to the spot his lips had touched.
Zane Savage, teen star of
Hollywood High
, the love of my life when I was thirteen or so. How many hours had my sister Danielle
and I spent giggling over Zane, fantasizing about meeting him accidentally on a plane
or at the mall, saving him or being saved by him from some unspecified and highly
unlikely peril, marrying him in a lace dress with a twelve-foot train and six bridesmaids?
Okay, the dress fantasy was Dani’s; I favored something simpler. I wondered what had
happened to the Zane Savage poster that had hung over my bed for a year or two. Maybe
even until I was sixteen and
Hollywood High
went off the air.

“You’re Zane Savage.” God, could I sound any stupider? I remembered this was being
filmed for the entertainment of millions and winced.

He laughed. “Yes, I am. These are for you.” He thrust the tulips at me again, and
I took them this time.

“Thanks. Uh, come in.”

Zane Savage had pretty much disappeared after
Hollywood High
got canceled. Another child actor who never converted his success to adult stardom.
I seemed to recall that he’d gone to college somewhere prestigious, maybe even played
a sport for his university—lacrosse?—but I might be thinking of someone else. I eyed
him covertly as he moved into the drawing room. He must be in his mid-thirties, but
he still had the wholesome, boy-next-door cuteness that had captivated millions of
tweenage girls: longish, sun-streaked hair; hazel eyes fringed by outrageous lashes;
a smile that quirked up on one side. In addition, he now sported a haze of mustache
and goatee that I found incredibly attractive. He wore aging khakis and a white shirt,
open at the collar, working hard at looking casual, approachable, and hot. He was
succeeding wildly at the latter, as far as I was concerned.

“So, where’ve you been for the last fifteen years or so?” I asked.

His eyes widened, as if he was surprised by my bluntness, but then he laughed. “Around.
But not in front of the camera, so it’s the equivalent of being deader than Busby
Berkeley musicals. Is there some place to sit?” He gestured at the nearly empty parlor.

“Kitchen.” I led the way, too aware of Tessa and the camera guy listening in. I looked
for a vase and finally filled Great-aunt Laurinda’s parrot-shaped ceramic cookie jar
with water and plopped in the tulips. I liked the whimsical effect. “Thanks for these,”
I told Zane, placing the makeshift vase on the table and sitting across from him.
“This is your comeback, then?”

“You could say that.” Zane turned to Tessa where she hovered near the refrigerator,
out of the shot. “Have you got enough, Tess?” Reaching around, he detached the mike
pack from the waistline of his khakis and laid it on the table.

“Perfect,” Tessa said after a tight-lipped moment.

I got the feeling she wanted more footage, but she was giving in to Zane. I wrinkled
my brow, not sure how the power dynamics played out between the two. Not my problem,
I decided.

Tessa nodded at Larry who lowered his camera. “We’ll go away and let you two get acquainted.
Be upstairs in twenty so we can film your first lesson with Stacy.”

Zane nodded his acknowledgment and waited until Tessa and Larry had left, using my
interior staircase to return to the upstairs studio. Then, he leaned toward me, close
enough that I could smell his subtle cologne.

“Now I can tell you how much I’ve been looking forward to this. Since seeing Tessa’s
footage of you dancing at Blackpool, I’ve been impatient to meet you. I made dancing
with you part of my contract with
Blisters
. You’ve got a certain something the viewers will love, and I’ve got a feeling that
we can go all the way. Win this, I mean,” he added with a smile, making sure I caught
the double meaning. “I probably shouldn’t show you my ambitious side at a first meeting,
but being on
Blisters
, winning, will show casting directors that I’m not cute Hayden Hansen of
Hollywood High
anymore; it’ll make me competitive for new roles, dramatic roles, romantic leads,
let me take my career to the next level.” His hazel eyes searched my green ones. “You
want to win, right?”

“I always want to win.” My dad frequently said I’d been a competitive little cuss
from the moment I emerged from the womb, and that I’d walked at nine months only because
our neighbor went on and on about how her son took his first step at just over ten
months.

I gave Zane an assessing look. “Ballroom dancing isn’t all sequins and spray tans.
It’s damn hard work. You need to be flexible, aerobically fit, and strong. On top
of that, you need a great sense of rhythm and showmanship—pizzazz. If you really want
to win, I’ll have to work you like you’ve never worked in your life.”

He didn’t hesitate. “Bring it on.”

* * *

Upstairs in the ballroom, we redonned the mike packs and I took Zane through some
warm-ups, and tested his flexibility. With knees locked, he could stretch his fingertips
only to his ankles. “We need to work on your flexibility,” I said as I demonstrated
a simple waltz box step for him, feeling a bit self-conscious with the two producers
and the cameraman paying close attention.

“Step forward with your left foot on one. Step to the right with your right foot on
two, and bring your left foot to your right foot on three. That’s the basic step.
Easy, right?” I moved through the steps five more times while he watched.

“I think I’ve got it.” Zane stepped forward and completed the sequence correctly,
counting under his breath.

“Excellent. Now let’s talk about frame.”

We worked for three solid hours and he made quick progress, listening intently, his
gaze fixed on my face, whenever I explained something. He had a naturally elegant
frame and sense of rhythm; once he got over wanting to watch his feet, he was going
to be a good dancer. I told him so.

He pulled me close in a way that had more to do with middle school slow dancing than
ballroom, letting his hands drift to my waist. He smiled down at me, such warmth and
mischief in his gaze that I had to remind myself he was an actor and the cameras were
rolling.

“What a relief. I was afraid you’d be disappointed to end up with me.”

* * *

“Disappointed? Zane Savage—Zane Savage!—actually suggested you might be disappointed
at getting to spend several weeks with him, dancing with him, in his arms?” From atop
a step stool, my sister Danielle stared down at me incredulously that evening. “Get
out!” A strip of wallpaper slid from the wall, leaving a trail of glue slime. “Oh,
damn.”

Her apartment complex had recently converted to a condo and she’d bought the unit
she’d lived in for almost six years. Now, she was intent on redecorating every inch
of it and I’d promised to help after pointing out that I had zero expertise with any
aspect of home improvement. She’d appointed me chief wallpaper cutter and soaker.

“That’s what he said.”

“You told him that you were thrilled, over the moon, ecstatic to be partnered with
him, right?”

“Not in so many words.” I hoped my expression hadn’t said all that for me. “We’re
not thirteen anymore, after all. I told him I thought we’d do well in the competition.
He’s about the right height for me, which helps, and he’s in great shape.” Ridged
abs had shown through the thin mesh of his practice shirt, and I figured that would
go over well with every female demographic, and some of the male.

Danielle sighed and reached above her head to smooth the limp strip onto the wall.
“I could be so jealous of you, if I let myself.”

I looked up, catching something in her voice, but her back was to me. “What about
Coop?”

“Oh, Coop.” Danielle dismissed her longtime boyfriend with another sigh. “We’re . . .
I don’t know . . . getting stale, you know?” Turning her head, she looked down at
me over her shoulder. “What about Tav?”

“What about Tav?”

She waggled her brows at me.

I fought to keep from blushing. I bent to cut another length of wallpaper, breathing
in the new vinyl odor. “He’s my business partner. Period. After the way things turned
out between me and Rafe—I’m not going to make the same mistake twice.” Truth was,
I’d almost given in to my attraction to Tav and gone on a date with him. I’d actually
said, “Yes,” when he asked me out, but then backed out the morning of the day we were
supposed to have dinner. I’d felt bad about it—awful, actually—when I’d seen the look
in his eyes, but I thought I was doing the smart thing by hinting Tav away. I just
wasn’t ready for a serious relationship, especially not with someone who was a virtual
clone of my dead fiancé.

“Chicken.”

I stared at Dani. “I’m not afraid. I’m being . . . sensible. Everyone’s always telling
me not to be so impulsive, but the moment I try cautious on for size, you call me
‘chicken’?”

“Bawk, bawk!” Dani flapped her arms, elbows out. “Rafe cheated on you and he died.
I get it. You don’t want to get hurt again. But Tav’s not Rafe.
When do I get to meet him?”

She lost me for a moment, but then I realized she was back to Zane Savage. Fine. I’d
rather talk about him than Tav. “Meet Zane? I’m teaching him to dance, not serving
as his social secretary. I don’t expect to see him outside the studio.”

Danielle jumped off the stepladder, landing with a thump, and stood facing me with
her pasty hands on her hips. “You’re planning to keep him to yourself, aren’t you?
Even though I was the one who was most in love with him.”

She must have been joking, even though she sounded semiserious. “‘Most in love with
him’? You’re kidding, right? We had crushes on him when we were thirteen. That was
more than fifteen years ago. We grew out of it, grew up, threw away our posters.”

Danielle mumbled something.

“What?”

“I said I still have mine.” She eyed me, half-defiant, half-embarrassed. “At least,
I think I do. In a box with my other high school stuff.”

I laughed. “Oh, that’s great! Maybe he’d autograph it for you. You could probably
get big bucks for it now, as a collector’s item. Oops.” I pulled an extremely soggy
roll of wallpaper from the water tray, and held it up by thumb and forefinger, letting
it drip paste and water into the tray.

“Don’t you dare tell him,” Danielle said, sounding like a teen ordering her best friend
not to reveal her crush on the basketball team captain.

“Cross my heart and hope to die.” I marked a cross on my chest with my forefinger,
smudging glue on my orange T-shirt, and wondered if I’d stepped into a time machine
that had transported me back to my teenage years. Pretty soon we’d start squabbling
about whose turn it was to do the dishes or take out the trash, and she’d accuse me
of stealing her favorite green shirt (which I was pretty sure I still had in the back
of my closet).

“You’re making fun of me!”

I tried to pacify her. “Look, if I can figure out a way to introduce you, I will.”

“Hmph.” She went at the wallpaper with a brush, apparently planning to beat the air
pockets into submission rather than smooth them away.

I stared at Danielle for a moment, puzzled by her unusual snappiness and having trouble
believing this was really about Zane Savage. Before I could ask if there was anything
wrong, she snatched the drippy wallpaper from me and ascended the step stool.

Muttering under her breath about how wet the strip was, she tried to plaster it to
the wall. It tore. The bottom third sagged down, landing on my head where I bent over
the water tray. Glue oozed down my temple. Ick. I sprang back, knocking against the
stepladder. It rocked.

“Are you trying to kill me?” Danielle steadied herself with a hand on the wall and
glared at me.

“Maybe you’d do better without me.” I was on the verge of losing my temper, too, as
I dragged the wallpaper off my head; I’d need half a bottle of shampoo to get the
paste out of my hair.

“Maybe I would.”

“Fine.” I dropped the scissors with a clang and walked out.