The Homicide Hustle (9 page)

We chuckled and then jumped as Hoover scrambled to his feet and gave a deep “Woof”
a split second before someone knocked on the kitchen door. From the way Hoover’s tail
was wagging, I knew he liked whoever was there. I peered out, and seeing Maurice,
opened the door.

“I’ve come to take the hound off your hands—” he started, but then caught sight of
Phoebe leaning against the stove. “Excuse me, I didn’t mean to interrupt.” He wore
an off-white shirt and striped tie with his usual blazer and was newly shaved. He
was obviously headed out, if his air of anticipation was anything to go by. I was
dying to ask him what had happened at the police station.

“No problem,” Phoebe said. “I’m leaving. I need to rest up before the show tomorrow
night. I’m petrified at the thought of forgetting the steps in front of a national
audience. I dreamed about it last night. This ballroom dancing stuff wears me out.
I thought martial arts was tough, but this—” She shook her head in a bemused way,
collected her red jacket from the back of her chair, and started down the hall. I
walked her to the door, and then returned to where Maurice was leashing Hoover in
the kitchen.

“What happened at the police station?” I asked.

Maurice looked up from clipping the leash to Hoover’s collar. “Nothing much. Zane
was with Detective Lissy for perhaps forty-five minutes. When he came out, reporters
were waiting, so he ‘no commented’ his way out of the station. He didn’t even stop
to talk to his mother, who was understandably anxious.” Maurice frowned disapprovingly.

“What—”

“I’m sorry, Anastasia, but I’ve got to go. I’m meeting Kim in twenty minutes.”

I blinked at him. “You have a date? With Kim Savage?”

He smiled. “I do, indeed. So, if you’ll excuse me . . .” He led Hoover out the door
and I closed it slowly after them.

Well! I determined to be in the studio as early as possible in the morning, to get
the full scoop from Zane himself.

Chapter 13

I hadn’t realized that prepping for the live shows would take all day. With our first
show set to air Saturday night, the day was a tornado of activity. Final costume fittings
were followed by spray tans airbrushed on by Ariel and her cohorts. The tans were
just dark enough to add some color to our skin under the television lights. For Latin
dances later in the season, we’d get darker tans. Then vans transported us to the
George Washington Masonic Memorial where the first show’s filming was taking place.
We did run-throughs on the dance floor, working with the live band for the first time.
Cables snaked across the floor and stage, a table was set up for the judges, and dozens
of people scurried to and fro. Nigel was everywhere; I heard him even when I couldn’t
see him. Counting steps for Zane as we waltzed, I looked out into the empty room with
its plush, stadium-style seats, envisioning it filled with more than three hundred
spectators that night. The thought didn’t trouble me; an audience ringed the dance
floor at every ballroom competition.

I squeezed Zane’s hand as we finished our run-through. “You’re totally ready for this,
Zane. Sure you don’t want to give up that acting thing and concentrate on ballroom
dancing? You’d be winning competitions in no time.” I was laying it on a bit thick,
but getting amateurs into the right frame of mind before a big competition is one
thing that sets successful pros apart.

“I don’t think so, Stacy.” His smile seemed forced and I wondered if he was suffering
from stage fright or if he was fretting over the police interview. I didn’t get a
chance to ask him about it as a production assistant appeared to whisk him off to
speak to a reporter with the other celebs. I had to hang around for a rehearsal with
the other pros for an exhibition number we were doing to close the show.

Nigel had come up with the idea of doing a dance memorial for Tessa and tasked Solange
Dubonnet with choreographing the number. The redhead taught it to us quickly, looking
decidedly un-memorialish in orange leggings and long tank top that should have clashed
with her hair but didn’t. Marco Ingelido was there, as were the married couple, Tonya
and Nikolai Grishenko, and me and Vitaly. The choreography was flashy but simple,
kind of like Solange, I thought cattily, and we picked it up easily. It was a relief
to be dancing with Vitaly, to give myself over to his strong lead and gliding step,
after the weeks spent rehearsing with Zane.

“Is good, no?” Vitaly said, as he helped me up from the death drop that ended the
number.

“Is very good,” I agreed, returning his smile.

* * *

Ariel came to fetch me not long after that. Walking to the room set aside for makeup,
we passed on one side of the velvet curtain that veiled the stage and dance floor
from the backstage area. Angry voices drifted from behind the curtain and Ariel and
I exchanged embarrassed glances.

“I’m not going to play it that way.” Kristen’s sugary accents were decidedly more
strident than usual. “My contract—”

“Don’t think that just because Tessa’s gone, your job is safe.” Nigel’s British accent
clipped the words short. “We’re still in talks with Hannah’s people. Play the game,
luv, play the game.”

The sound of stiletto heels receded and I wondered what game Nigel wanted Kristen
to play. “What was that about?” I whispered to Ariel as we moved into the hall.

She glanced over her shoulder before saying, “Tessa told me she was considering replacing
Kristen with Hannah Malik, the comedienne who did so well on the show two seasons
ago. She thought a more comic vibe during the post-dance interviews might go over
well with the audience, and figured Hannah could keep the audience warmed up during
commercial breaks, too. I didn’t know she’d actually been in touch with Hannah’s agent,
though. Why don’t you have something to eat while I get set up?”

We stood in a long, narrow lodge room that had the makeup counter, chairs and mirror
set up at one end, and a table laden with food at the other. Carpet patterned in wine
and beige would hide most any spills, and matching draperies along the far wall made
it look as if the room had windows, when I knew it didn’t. Taking Ariel’s advice,
I noshed on veggies and the tiny sandwiches arrayed on a table while Ariel laid out
her brushes and cosmetics. I finished with a protein drink, knowing I needed to keep
my energy level up, but not wanting a full stomach to spoil the line of my dress.
I wished I’d remembered to give Zane a few tips on eating for the best performance.
When students didn’t eat properly before a competition, they frequently fizzled out,
not realizing how much energy the adrenaline drained out of them.

“I’ll be right back,” Ariel murmured, disappearing through the door and calling, “Kiko,
what did you do with my Bobbi Brown eyeliners?”

I tossed my empty bottle into the recycling bin, and when I turned around, Mickey
Hazzard was standing at the table. I figured the disgraced evangelist had come to
fuel up before he and Solange took the floor as the first couple to dance tonight.
He was already in costume, a powder blue tux with a ruffled shirt that made him look
like he’d gotten lost on his way to a 1980s prom.

“Hi,” I greeted him. We’d been introduced at the press conference, but hadn’t exchanged
more than three sentences previously, so I was surprised when he gave me a narrow-eyed
stare.

“Is it true?” His deep, smooth voice would have been mesmerizing from the pulpit,
I suspected.

“Huh?”

“That you’re investigating Tessa King’s death?”

“I—”

He took two long steps toward me and grabbed my upper arm. “Because you’ve got no
business poking around in my private life.”

“Let go of me!” I wrenched my arm away and glared at him.

“You take note. Look what sticking her nose where it didn’t belong got Tessa King.”
He leaned in close enough that I could see a trace of red in his eyes and smell licorice
on his breath.

“Are you threatening me?” I drew myself up, almost as tall as he was in my heels.

“Tessa King got what she deserved. ‘As ye sow, so shall ye reap.’” Turning on his
heel, he snatched a handful of celery sticks from the food table, bumping into Ariel
on his way out the door.

I stared after him, wondering what Tessa had ever done to him. His threat and his
agitation, not to mention his hatred of Tessa, made me wonder who else involved with
this show might have had a grudge of some kind against the dead producer.

“Why’s Mickey got his panties in a wad?” Ariel asked as I seated myself in her chair.
She brushed foundation over my face and neck.

I told her what the man had said and a serious look settled over her face. “I’ve been
wondering why he agreed to do
Blisters
,” she said. A delicate floral scent wafted from her cleavage as she leaned in to
set the foundation with powder. “I figured he didn’t realize Tessa was the coproducer
until he’d already signed up.”

“Do he and Tessa have history?”

Ariel gave me a pitying look, the kind of superior look that even a young Hollywood
insider can give a nearing-thirty ignorant outsider. “She’s the one that outed him.”

My crinkled brow must have betrayed my puzzlement, because she added, “
Pastors of Hypocrisy?
Don’t you watch movies?”

“I dance.”

She chuckled and swiped a glittery shadow across my eyelid. “That’s the documentary
Tessa did two years ago about hypocrisy in the evangelical Christian community. It’s
got footage of supposedly teetotaling preachers slugging down the booze at a conference,
proof that one minister built his seventy-five-hundred-square foot home with funds
out of the offering plate, and—”

“—and video of Pastor Mickey with underage girls,” I said. “I heard about it. I didn’t
know Tessa was involved.”

Nodding, Ariel said, “It was nominated for an Oscar, but lost to a Michael Moore film
that wasn’t nearly as good. Anyway, I guess he blames Tessa for breaking up his marriage
and for his getting fired by his congregation. Times have been tough in Mickey-world
since
Pastors of Hypocrisy
came out. I think he only signed on with
Blisters
for the money—he probably needs it to pay his divorce lawyers.”

Wow, she was cynical for someone barely a quarter century old. Before I could ask
her any more about Mickey Hazzard’s relationship with Tessa, several dancers and crew
members flooded in and surrounded the food table, including Zane. Catching my eye
in the mirror, he flashed me a smile and came over to us. A certain rigidity in his
stride revealed his tenseness, although he was hiding it well.

“You look stunning.” His gaze swept over my blond hair in its smooth chignon and down
the drift of pale pink satin and chiffon that was my dress. I had tested every seam
several times to make sure Nigel hadn’t booby-trapped it in some way. “Ariel is gilding
the lily.” He placed a warm hand on my bare shoulder and I felt the tingles all the
way to my toes.

“You look pretty dashing yourself,” I said, standing so his hand fell away. In a stark
black and white tux that would have passed muster with judges at an actual waltz competition,
he had his hair brushed back and wore a pink bow tie that matched my dress.

An assistant stage manager poked her head in and called, “Places.” I took a deep breath,
held it for a moment, and then place my hand on Zane’s arm. “Shall we?” he asked.

“Absolutely.”

* * *

The show both whizzed past and lasted longer than the most recent ice age. Time went
quickly during the dances, which we watched on a monitor from a holding room. I couldn’t
help mentally critiquing the other couples as they danced, and agreed with the judges’
scores more often than not. In addition to Carmelo, there were two female judges,
one of whom had competed as a professional dancer. The other came from Broadway and
had worked as a choreographer. I felt a pang, remembering that Corinne Blakely was
supposed to have been a judge this season, but her murder had forced the substitution
of the choreographer. Time crawled during the commercial breaks and the post-dance
interviews that Kristen Lee conducted with the sweaty but relieved couples. Mickey
Hazzard, I was pleased to see, danced with all the elegance of a two-by-four, although
I was forced to admit Solange’s choreography did a good job of hiding his gracelessness.

Then it was our turn, second to last, and I was whispering encouragement and “relax”
to Zane as we took our positions in the middle of the floor. Adrenaline coursed through
me, as it always did before a big competition, and I took three deep, slow breaths.
This is what I lived for. I never felt more alive, more
me
than on the dance floor, competing. The whisper of chiffon against my ankles, the
music’s caress, the energy flowing from the audience—this was home. I was ready to
win.

The lights blazed, the band struck up “My Heart Will Go On,” and I led Zane into the
first gliding movements, expertly making it look as if he were leading me. I counted
“
One
, two, three,” through my smile, and whispered “lines” when we struck our first pose.
Heat from the lights warmed my bare arms and I was aware of the faint chemical scent
from our spray tans. Midway through the dance, during a haunting French horn solo,
the magic took hold and, for a few bars, we moved effortlessly together, becoming
the doomed lovers Jack and Rose, waltzing on the deck of the
Titanic
. Then Zane put in an extra step and I came back to reality and guided him through
the last measures. It wasn’t until Zane braced me for my back-arching final pose and
swept me into an excited hug when the last note died away, that I had the chance to
survey the audience.

Tav, blazingly handsome in a dark suit and white shirt, sat in the second row. He
smiled proudly and threw me an air kiss. Danielle sat beside him and I had to bite
my lip to keep tears from welling up. I hadn’t realized how afraid I was she wouldn’t
come. Her red curls spilling around her shoulders, my sister was applauding hard.
As I watched, she put two fingers in her mouth and whistled. I winced, but grinned.
I’d never been able to do that. I gave them both a little wave, and blinked when I
spotted Detective Lissy watching impassively from a seat on the aisle. What was he
doing here? I wondered, trailing Zane to where Kristen stood waiting to talk to us.
She directed most of the questions to Zane and then the judges displayed their scores,
complimenting Zane on his lines—I pinched him surreptitiously—and his frame, but saying
his footwork needed work, as did his musicality. True.

At the show’s end, the memorial dance silenced the crowd. Kristen was supposed to
ask for a moment of silence for Tessa, but she didn’t need to. We dancers stood with
our heads bowed on stage, hands clasped, and I made a mental note to congratulate
Solange on the effectiveness of her choreography. After a suitable pause, Nigel surprised
everyone—including Kristen Lee, it seemed—by walking out onto the set and taking the
microphone from the hostess. I leaned forward, anxious to hear what he had to say.
When the audience’s rustling had died away, he spoke.

“We all feel the loss of Tessa King, me most of all,” he said. “Her death was a tragedy
and I want to announce tonight that
Ballroom with the B-Listers
and my production company are offering a fifty-thousand-dollar reward to anyone with
information about her death. The individual or individuals responsible must be brought
to justice.”

Gasps sounded from the audience and I wondered if Detective Lissy knew in advance
about Nigel’s reward idea. Judging by his reaction—stiff shoulders and a poker face—it
didn’t seem so. I couldn’t help but think again about how the studio could use that
kind of money. We could pay off the back taxes and maybe even have some left over
to put toward a parking lot. The band struck up the closing music and we beamed at
the cameras for eight seconds until one of the directors yelled that we were clear.
The judges’ scores put Nanette the pet psychic and Marco Ingelido in first place,
with Vitaly and Phoebe right behind them. Zane and I were in third and Calista Marques
was last, several points below Mickey and Solange. Calista’s partner, Nikolai, had
lost his grip during a death drop and she’d landed on the floor. Although she’d scrambled
up and they’d finished the number strongly, they still trailed in the judges’ ratings.
Nigel and the director looked pleased with how the show had gone, calling us together
for a brief meeting.