The Homicide Hustle (3 page)

Chapter 3

Walking into the studio the next morning, Thursday, the first thing I saw was Tav
chatting with—flirting with?—a pretty young woman with copper-colored curls framing
a heart-shaped face. She was leaning toward him over his desk, displaying a bosom
that stretched the white T-shirt tucked into faded jeans. “I’ve never been to Argentina,”
she said as I came through the door.

“You should definitely visit some day.” Tav’s smile was an invitation and for a moment
I saw Rafe. Rafe had flirted nonstop . . . with students, judges, store clerks. Tav
wasn’t Rafe, I reminded myself; he was just being friendly. His smile broadened when
he spotted me. “Stacy. Have you met Ariel?”

Of course she was named Ariel. She looked like a sprite or a mermaid: petite, slim,
curvaceous, and no more than twenty-five. “Hi.”

“She does makeup for the show.”

That explained why she was studying my face so closely.

“With those cheekbones and those brows, you must be extremely photogenic,” Ariel said.
“And I love your coloring. Is that blond hair natural?”

I warmed up to her, and smiled. “Mostly.” What are a few highlights among friends?

She started to say something else, but a thumping noise from the ballroom cut her
off.

“Can you not remembering for two minutes? Step back with
left
foot.”

“Well, if you were a better teacher, maybe I’d pick it up quicker,” Phoebe answered
Vitaly.

Sharing a worried look with Tav, I hurried to the ballroom door and peeped in. Tav
followed and looked over my shoulder; I could feel his breath stirring the hairs on
the top of my head. Vitaly and Phoebe stood two feet apart, glaring at each other.
The action star looked buff and energetic in a yellow workout bra and spandex bike
shorts. Vitaly looked frustrated, his dirty blond hair sticking out in all directions
like he’d run his hand through it. I’d never seen him get irate with a student before.

“You must be fuller of graces. The arms is not windmills.” He flailed his arms wildly
over his head.

Phoebe settled into a boxer’s stance, fists raised. “These arms are enough to put
you on the floor, homeboy. No one messed with me in prison.”

Curiosity replaced frustration on Vitaly’s face. “You were in the jail?”

I wasn’t as astonished as Vitaly because I’d read in
People
, pretty much my only reading material, about Phoebe Jackson’s journey from middle-class
Atlanta runaway, to drugs and life on the streets, to prison, and then to movie stardom.
Well, if not megastardom like Julia Roberts or Ethan Jarrett, then at least steady
movie employment. She was the black female Robert Downey Jr., some reporter said,
who had conquered her demons and reinvented herself. She was a role model for young
girls in trouble, the reporter added, and spent a lot of time and money helping girls
like her get ahead.

“I was,” Phoebe said, almost proudly, “and every woman on my cell block was tougher
than you, so don’t let your mouth write any checks your body can’t cash.”

“Great.” Tessa’s voice cut in and I leaned farther into the ballroom, spotting her
and Larry the camera dude in the far corner. I breathed out a sigh of relief, realizing
that Vitaly’s spat with Phoebe had been at least partially scripted. I’d been worried
for a second that their partnership was doomed from the get-go.

“My money is on Phoebe,” Tav whispered. He cocked his head as if assessing the odds.

“I don’t know . . . I’ll bet Vitaly has a few tricks up his sleeve.” I giggled at
the thought of Vitaly and Phoebe in a wrestling match and Tav drew me away from the
door, his hand warm on my bare arm. We almost tripped over Ariel who had come up behind
us. “Is it always like this?” I asked.

She rolled her eyes. “This is nothing. Wait until the third or fourth week of competition.
Nigel and Tessa will have people at each other’s throats . . . or in each other’s
beds. It’s all about the ratings, baby. Tessa and Nigel live and die by the ratings.
Either one of them would give their firstborn to a tribe of Gypsies if it would boost
ratings a point or two.”

She said it matter-of-factly, not bitterly. Tav arched his brows. “Tessa seems nice
enough,” I ventured. I already suspected Nigel was a toad.

She snorted. “When nice will get the results she wants, Tessa’s nice.”

Sauntering off, she left us to draw our own conclusions about how Tessa did business
when nice didn’t cut it.

Chapter 4

Luckily, the cameras weren’t rolling two weeks later when Nigel suggested we engineer
a wardrobe malfunction and I slapped his hand away. They wouldn’t be, of course, since
he was trying to talk me into a display that would make the FCC sensors froth at the
mouth.

“Do not ever poke me again,” I said in a low voice so the costume designer and seamstress
didn’t hear me. They stood near the doorway of the room we called the “studio” to
distinguish it from the “ballroom.” We used it for individual lessons and small groups.

Anger flared in Nigel’s pale blue eyes, but then he forced a smile, showing all of
his strangely even teeth. “Feisty,” he said. “That will play well with the younger
audience members. They like a bit of brangling when they turn on the telly.”

I was weary of being told what would “play well” or “go over big” with various demographic
groups, but I said, “Happy to hear it.”

Nigel turned away from me, saying, “Anyone seen Tessa? She should’ve been here two
hours ago.” He paused to chat with the costumers near the door and one of them nodded,
sliding me a sideways glance. Suspicion tickled me and I moved as quickly as the pinned-on
gown would allow, catching Nigel in the hall.

Stopping him with a hand on his arm, I said sweetly, “You know, Nige, if my bodice
should happen to
accidentally
come apart while I’m dancing, your life won’t be worth living.” Okay, so the phrase
sounded like it’d come from the sort of straight-to-DVD movie most of this show’s
celebs “starred” in, but I couldn’t think of a more realistic threat on the spur of
the moment.

“Accidents happen, Stace, don’t they?” Without bothering to see how I responded, he
continued down the hall, bellowing, “Where the
hell
is Tessa?”

I was debating chasing after him, when Zane stepped out of the powder room wearing
a classic black tux with a pink bow tie and cummerbund to match my dress. He would
have passed muster at any Standard ballroom competition, except for the tousled hair
and goatee; judges prefer a clean-shaven look. He spread his arms wide, and said,
“Ta-da! I look like Fred Astaire, only more ruggedly handsome, right?”

Studying Zane’s costume, I assured him that he not only looked like a ballroom dancer,
he was one. He’d improved tremendously in the two weeks we’d spent practicing. I’d
been relieved to discover that the production crew and cameras spent only a small
portion of each day filming us since they had to spend equal time at the other studios
participating on
Blisters
. Zane and I got a lot more real practicing done when Tessa and Nigel weren’t standing
in a corner, offering suggestions. It was evident from our second practice that the
producers were urging Zane and me to become romantic, to contrast with the arguments
they sparked between Phoebe and Vitaly, I suspected. I was glad I’d gotten the scoop
from Ariel.

“Let me take this off”—I gestured to the pinned-on pink gown—“and we can get in another
hour of practice. Your footwork is still atrocious.”

“I can help you get out of that,” Zane said, not bothered by my criticism. He started
forward with a smile.

“Down, boy.” I held him off with stiff arms. “The cameras aren’t rolling.”

“All the better.” Grabbing a wrist in each hand, he pushed my arms apart and brought
us chest to chest, arms out. Slowly, he lowered our arms until they rested at our
sides. “We could play hooky this afternoon,” he said in a low voice, the look in his
eyes leaving me in no doubt about what he’d prefer to practice.

His woodsy scent, combined with the heat left over from our vigorous dancing, was
playing havoc with my hormones. He leaned in closer, ostensibly to whisper in my ear,
and his cheek brushed mine, the stubble rasping gently across my skin. Warmth flooded
me.

“There you are.”

Zane and I whipped our heads toward the sound and he released me. I knew I was blushing,
and it made me mad.

“Danielle,” I said. “I wasn’t expecting you.” I hadn’t seen her since wallpaper night.

“You must be Zane.” She ignored me, coming toward Zane with her hand out and a sparkle
in her eye. “I’m Danielle Graysin, Stacy’s sister. Call me Dani.”

Shooting me a quizzical look, he shook hands with her. “Nice to meet you. Stacy didn’t
tell me she had a sister.”

“Of course not.” Danielle’s laugh sounded forced. “I just stopped by to see if she’d
like to lunch. Maybe you could join us?”

“I can’t—” I started.

“Oh, too bad,” she said with fake disappointment. “I guess it’s just you and me, then.”
She smiled up at Zane in a way I had to admit was charming and engaging, even though
I wanted to strangle her.

Zane didn’t hesitate. “Delightful, Dani. Or should I say Delightful Dani? Let me change.”
He closed the door to the powder room, leaving Danielle and me facing each other.

“How’s it going?” I asked. A pin stabbed my rib cage and I winced.

“Fine.” She didn’t meet my eyes, pretending to inspect a hangnail.

“Good.” A long pause ensued. I shifted from foot to foot, not knowing what to say.
I was mad at her for showing up like this and hijacking Zane, but I didn’t want to
fight, either. “Danielle—”

Before I could suggest we get together later, Zane reappeared in jeans. “Ready?” He
looked from me to Danielle.

“Always!” Linking her arm in his she drew him toward the door that led to the exterior
staircase.

Zane looked over his shoulder at me as she opened the door. “Sure you can’t join us,
Stacy? We’ll be back in time for the press conference.”

“She’s busy,” Danielle said and yanked him onto the small landing before I could respond.

I’d never wanted a sister.

“Too bad the cameras weren’t here to film that,” Phoebe observed with a laugh in her
voice. With sweat beaded on her forehead, she crossed the hall to get a bottle of
sports drink from the small fridge in the powder room. I could hear Vitaly changing
out the CD in the ballroom.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said loftily.

That only made her laugh harder. She paused beside me and twisted off the bottle’s
cap to glug down three-quarters of the water. “Remind me that tequila shooters and
dance practice don’t mix,” she said with a comic eye roll.

I laughed. “Tequila shooters?”

“We all went clubbing in D.C. last night and things got a little wild.”

She gave a strained smile that said “major hangover” to me, and I offered, “I’ve got
some ibuprofen.”

“You’re a goddess.”

I ducked into my office, retrieved the bottle, and brought it back to Phoebe, who
was slumped against the wall. She took several pills with the rest of the water and
straightened. “Don’t tell that Russian slave driver in there, but I can’t remember
the last time a workout made me so sore.”

“Phoebe. No more the lollygaggings,” Vitaly called out, right on cue.

Laughing, I returned to where the seamstress was waiting to unpin me from my gown,
while Phoebe reluctantly reentered the ballroom. Back in my practice clothes of cropped
top and capri-length warm-up pants, I traipsed barefoot to my office, admiring the
new teal polish on my toenails as I went. With Vitaly and Phoebe practicing in the
ballroom, Nigel and his crew haunting dancers at another studio, and Tav engaged in
downtown D.C. with his import-export business, I hoped I could get some scheduling
done and call some students to rearrange their practice times yet again. So far, everyone
had been cooperative, excited about Graysin Motion appearing on
Blisters
, but I knew the constant schedule shuffling would get irritating before long.

Done with the final call, I tuned my computer to a radio station, hoping for a weather
report. Instead, I got news about a gang killing in D.C., a hit-and-run that left
a homeless man near death, and a domestic murder-suicide that left two small children
and their parents dead. Nothing but cheeriness, I thought, waiting it out to get the
forecast: a high of ninety with matching humidity and a chance of showers in the late
afternoon. Not unusual for early July in this area.

My door flew open without a knock and I looked up, startled.

“Tessa here?” Nigel stood in a half crouch, as if hoping to spot her under my desk.
His British accent was more noticeable when he was stressed.

“I thought you were gone.”

“I was. If you see her, tell her to give me a bell. We’ve got a problem over at Take
the Lead.” He left, not bothering to close the door, and not seeming to notice he’d
supplied me with the name of one of the competing studios. It probably wasn’t a big
deal since the press conference this evening was designed to reveal all the competitors.

Take the Lead with Ingelido was a studio I knew well. It was the flagship for a ballroom
dancing franchise owned by Marco Ingelido, a dancer I’d had run-ins with while trying
to figure out who killed the grande dame of ballroom dancing, Corinne Blakely. Even
worse, Take the Lead was where Solange Dubonnet taught. I wrinkled my nose in distaste
at the prospect of competing head-to-head with the woman I’d caught in bed with Rafe
back when he was still my fiancé. I wondered if it was possible that Nigel Whiteman
knew about that and had deliberately pitted us against each other hoping we’d start
a cat fight that would bump the ratings up. Nah, I decided. There was no way he could
know. I was being paranoid. Still, I hoped Solange had an old, overweight, obnoxious
“b-lister” as a partner. I wasted some time trying to think of who would make the
most revolting and least capable partner, but finally returned to my scheduling.

* * *

Nigel and Tessa had scheduled a press conference for the evening to announce all the
competing studios and their b-listers. The judges would be present to talk about each
star’s potential, and the show’s host, Kristen Lee, who had zero dance experience
but looked great in slinky evening wear, would also be on hand. I was excited about
the opportunity to see who we were up against, celebrity-wise and pro-wise, and it
was hard to sit still as Ariel drew on heavy navy eyeliner.

“I could do that myself,” I said. “I’ve been doing makeup for competitions since I
was ten.” Wearing the pink dress that was my waltz costume for the first live show
Saturday night, I leaned forward to inspect her collection of bottles, tubes, brushes,
and wands.

“Ssh.” She batted my hand away when I tried to pick up a lipstick. “Are you trying
to do me out of a job?”

I grinned and relaxed back into the chair that sat in a long trailer parked near the
Alexandria City Hall in Market Square where the producers had decided to hold the
press conference. Zane sat in the next chair, a smock protecting his costume, and
Vitaly and Phoebe were having their faces applied on the other side of a partition.
I’d exchanged greetings with the head judge, Carmelo, a dancer I knew slightly, before
he disappeared into a private room at the back. The trailer smelled gloriously of
hair and makeup products, and I breathed in deeply.

“Have fun with my sister?” I asked Zane, obediently looking up as Ariel flicked mascara
on my lower lashes.

“She’s a sweetheart.”

I heard the smile in his voice, even though I couldn’t look at him. “That’s one word
for her.” The hum of the trailer’s air-conditioning partially drowned out his answer
and before I could ask him to repeat, the door swung open, letting the humidity rush
in, along with a bright, brittle voice. “I hate this freaking humidity. Look what
it’s done to my hair. I told Nigel we should’ve gone to Phoenix.”

A petite blonde I recognized as the show’s host, Kristen Lee, swept down the aisle
and plunked herself into a stylist’s chair. “You have to fix it again, Giorgio.”

She reminded me of a cat. Not one of those big fluffy ones with the pushed-in noses,
but a small, sleek, compact one. All toned arms and pronounced collarbones, she had
hair a couple shades lighter than my blond, a pointy chin, and feline eyes that tipped
up at the corners.

“You’re Anastasia Graysin,” she announced after a narrow-eyed moment of studying me.

“Stacy.”

“I told Nigel we shouldn’t use you,” she said matter-of-factly. “Ow, not so hard,
Giorgio. Your coloring is too similar to mine. We’ll look . . .”—she waved one hand,
unable to find the word—“too . . .
something
standing side by side for the post-dance reactions. Wardrobe is going to have to
make sure we’re always dressed in contrasting colors. Viewers will think we’re twins.”

You wish
, I thought but didn’t say. Kristen Lee was forty if she was a day, compared to my
not-quite-thirty, and she was a good four inches shorter than I, and two cup sizes
smaller, at least. “I’m sure that will work,” I said.

Giorgio fizzed half a can of hairspray over her hair, slicked stick-straight to below
her shoulders, and I coughed.

Surveying her reflection in the mirror, Kristen proclaimed, “Better. I wish to hell
Tessa would show up. I need to talk to her, and Nigel is chewing nails. You know how
he gets.”

There was a generalized “mm-hm” from the crew of makeup and hair artists and Kristen
swept out in a rustle of black taffeta.

Ariel moved down the counter to find something, and I leaned closer to Zane. “No one’s
seen Tessa all day. Is that usual?”

“No,” he said, brows drawing together. “I’m worried. I told Nigel we should tell the
police she’s missing, but he almost snapped my head off. Said
that
was not the kind of publicity we wanted this early in the show.”

That led me to wonder if police-related publicity would be good farther into the show’s
run, but I didn’t bring it up. “Has anyone checked her hotel room? Maybe she’s ill.”

“I don’t know.” His square jaw jutted forward in a determined way. “If she doesn’t
turn up for the press conference, I’ll go over there myself.”