The Homicide Hustle (17 page)

Chapter 24

By the time Zane, Maurice, Vitaly, and Calista arrived, more or less simultaneously,
I had cried myself out and hobbled to the bathroom after using all the tissues in
my office. Blowing my nose on a piece of toilet paper, I examined my face in the mirror:
red, swollen eyes; red, raw nose; bruises; ratty hair. I sniffed. If I belonged on
any reality show, it was
Survivor
since I looked like someone who’d been living in a lean-to on a tropical island for
a month, eating ants, injuring myself doing outrageous challenges, and fighting with
the other obsessive nuts vying for a million dollars. My expression suggested I’d
just been booted off the show. I tried a smile. It looked pitiful. Hearing the outer
door open, I hurriedly blew my nose again, splashed cold water on my face, and prepared
to tell everyone I looked this way because of the crash.

Maurice had filled everyone in by the time I emerged so I didn’t have to go through
the story again—thankfully. “Can you dance?” Vitaly said, at the same time Zane said,
“You can’t dance.”

“Of course I can dance,” I said. “I finished a competition with a broken toe once
when I was sixteen. We were named Rising Stars at the end of it. This is nothing.”

Zane eyed me doubtfully. Calista looked up from her texting and said, “You need a
hot stone massage.”

“A massage is a good idea,” Maurice seconded. “Wait until after I’m done with Thelma
and I will drive you to my therapist. She has magic fingers.”

“Don’t forget our ‘out and about’ jaunt with Kristen and the cameras this afternoon,”
Zane said. “Nigel asked me to remind you. We’re all going this time.”

Too weary to argue any further, I let them talk me into going downstairs to rest until
Maurice finished with his student. I could faintly hear the music and footsteps coming
through the floor and I felt guilty about not practicing with Zane, but not guilty
enough to drag myself back up there. I guess I fell asleep, because the next thing
I knew Maurice was knocking on the door.

* * *

After an hour on the massage table, and several more painkillers, I felt almost human.
I thanked Maurice profusely when he dropped me back at my house. Turning to go inside,
I heard a car door clunk shut and saw a man approaching me. Detective Lissy. Rather
than open the door, I took a step toward him, hoping that I wouldn’t have to invite
him in. The breeze toyed with a wisp of his comb-over, but otherwise he was as precise
as ever. The sun reflecting up off his polished shoes made my eyes hurt. He stopped
three feet away and studied me.

“I heard about the accident, Ms. Graysin. How are you feeling?”

“Not too bad.”

He nodded. “I’m glad to hear it.”

He seemed sincere and I relented, unlocking the door to let us in. It was too hot
to stand on the sidewalk in the baking sun. “What can I do for you?” I asked. I settled
on my new chair by the parlor window and nudged the ottoman toward Lissy with one
foot since it was the only other seating surface in the room. He remained standing.

“The report said your brakes were tampered with. When did you last drive your car?
Who had the opportunity to cut the brake line?”

For answer, I pushed myself out of the chair and led him through the kitchen and out
the back door to my carport. I pointed toward the rental car. “That’s where I keep
my car,” I said. “I don’t have a garage or anything, so anyone could have gotten to
it. I keep the car locked, but . . .” That wouldn’t stop someone from crawling underneath
it and sabotaging it. I tried to think when I’d last driven it. “I think I last drove
it on Monday, when I came to see you.”

Lissy looked dissatisfied. “This is Wednesday, so the saboteur had a wide window of
opportunity: Monday afternoon, Monday night, and all day yesterday. My money’s on
Monday night.”

“I didn’t hear anything.”

“Cutting a brake line is not a difficult or noisy task.” He strolled past the carport
and looked up and down the alley. I knew there wasn’t much to see: garbage cans, the
openings to my neighbors’ carports or garages, a few scraggly plants, and a big Dumpster
being used for the trash from the last house on the left’s renovation. “We’ll canvass
the neighbors,” Lissy said, not sounding like he thought it would do much good. “Got
to cover all the bases.”

“Thanks.”

He eyed me consideringly. “I never know if telling you to lay off is going to have
an impact, or make you try harder, Ms. Graysin, but I’ll say it anyway: lay off this
case. You’ve poked a hornet’s nest and gotten stung. I don’t need your help. We’re
making progress and I’m confident we’ll make an arrest before long.”

“Really?” That was good news, if true. “Who?”

“All in due time, Ms. Graysin. All in due time.”

I watched his back as he made his way around the side of the house and back to his
car. I wanted to believe he had a viable suspect for Tessa’s murder, but his “all
in due time” hadn’t carried the ring of conviction, no pun intended.

I returned to the house, downed a glass of water, and mounted the interior stairs
to the studio. My muscles barely twinged as I climbed and I felt encouraged. Nigel
pounced on me as soon as I reached the top.

“There you are, luv,” he said. “Good God, your face! They told me you’d had an accident,
but I had no idea. What a pity the camera wasn’t there. Ariel!”

The young redhead appeared and scanned my face with a professional eye. “Nothing a
little foundation and powder won’t cover.” She led me into the bathroom and worked
for ten minutes to cover the bruise on my temple and the top of the one across my
chest. “Wear something a little higher cut and that won’t show at all,” she said,
giving me a final dusting with loose powder.

I peeked down toward my cleavage. “I don’t own anything higher cut.” If I’d been thinking,
I’d have borrowed something from Danielle.

Ariel laughed. “I’m sure we can dig up a shrug somewhere. You’re going to the church
this afternoon, right?”

“Beats me.”

She nodded, curls bobbing. “Some church where George Washington used to attend services.
So it’s appropriate for you to be covered up anyway.”

Even though Christ Church was only a few blocks away, on N. Washington, we loaded
into the vans again. Kristen Lee was already on board, her light blond hair French
braided, big glasses covering her eyes. She stared pointedly out the window as Ariel,
Larry, and I clambered up, and the tote bag on the seat beside her made it clear she
didn’t want to chat. I sat behind her, next to Larry, and Ariel sat across the aisle.
Nigel drove himself, and the other cast members were meeting us there, coming from
their apartments or studios or homes.

“I’m glad you weren’t hurt too bad,” Larry said as the van lurched off. His voice
had a soft burr that suggested he was from the Midwest.

“Thanks.” He was an ordinary-looking guy; you wouldn’t notice him if you passed him
in a grocery store or stood in line behind him at the bank. Soft brown hair matched
the overgrown beard that partially disguised a long jaw. I felt a little embarrassed
about not having had an actual conversation with him, despite the fact that I’d seen
him almost every day for more than three weeks. “How long have you been a cameraman?”

“Ever since I figured out that I enjoyed being behind the camera better than in front
of it.” His beard mostly hid a smile. “I was in all the high school plays back in
Illinois, and I went off to school intending to study acting, but then my folks gave
me a videocam for Christmas my freshman year, and I was hooked. Said good-bye to acting,
and went to film school. I linked up with Nigel shortly after graduation and I’ve
been working on his projects pretty steadily ever since.”

The van jolted to a stop at a light and I grabbed for the back of the seat in front
of me. “Any plans for directing some day, or producing your own show?”

“Maybe.” Larry grimaced. “You’ve got to be a wheeler-dealer, be able to get in good
with the money types to produce, and that’s not really my thing. I’m happy with this
gig. Nigel might be a little high-strung, but he’s loyal to his crew.”

“What about Tessa?”

Larry’s face closed down and he shifted on the bench seat. “She had a lot of talent.
Knew how to get reactions from people. Nigel—he gets a combustible mix of folks together
and lets nature take its course, like a chemistry experiment. Tessa—she was better
at coaxing a particular reaction from someone, getting them to say things they didn’t
want to say on camera. She’d plant a seed early on and then three days, a week, later
it would bloom. Sometimes like a damned ‘Jack and the Beanstalk’ beanstalk. I saw
her go to work on Hazzard’s wife for
Pastors of Hypocrisy
.” He clicked his tongue in a little
tch
of admiration. “She had a gift.

“What about you? How’d you get into ballroom dancing?”

I answered Larry’s question with half my mind, while the other half wondered if Mickey
Hazzard, and potentially many others, might not have described Tessa’s gift as a trick
or a curse.

The van stopped at Christ Church and we piled out. All the dancers, the pros and the
b-listers, gaggled on the sidewalk, staring at the brick building with its white trim
and tiered-wedding-cake-looking steeple. Mickey Hazzard was rounding everyone up like
he was in charge. My surprise must have shown because Nigel said, “It
is
a church, and he’s a padre. Who better to guide our viewers through the church than
a man of God?” He flashed his sharky grin and moved away to clap Mickey on the shoulder.

Larry went into camera-guy mode and we all moved into the church. The interior was
simple, without the kind of ornate decorations or stained glass windows I’d seen in
the cathedrals I’d visited in England when I was at Blackpool for the Dance Festival;
it was a peaceful, light-filled space. The pews were painted white and looked like
narrow stalls; they actually had little doors on either end. Red carpets added the
only colorful note since the many-paned windows were clear glass, not stained. George
Washington’s family pew was near the front, on the left-hand side. As I listened to
Mickey talk about the church’s history, I let my gaze rest on each of the people gathered
round. It came to me with a start that I didn’t want any of these people, anyone associated
with
Blisters
, to be guilty of killing Tessa. I didn’t like Nigel, but I sort of admired his single-minded
dedication to the show. And Kristen, even though she was snippy and standoffish, was
a woman over forty fighting to survive in an industry that worshipped at the altar
of youth. (I couldn’t help the church metaphors; the surroundings were affecting me.)
As for Mickey . . . well, the way he talked about the church and the Founding Fathers’
beliefs made me think he was sincere in his faith, even if he’d screwed up big time.
Maybe he was just a good actor, I told myself. Zane, Phoebe, Calista, Nanette, the
others . . . no one came across as a killer and I
liked
most of them.

I’d liked the woman who killed Corinne Blakely, too, and I thought for a moment about
how that had turned out. No real justice, only sadness. It gave me pause. Maybe poking
into this case wasn’t a good idea, and not only because I’d clearly worried someone
enough that he or she was warning me off, or because it was creating a rift between
me and Tav. It might not be a good idea because I might not like what I uncovered.
I worried that around in my mind for a few minutes, missing much of what Mickey was
saying as we traipsed up the main aisle and examined the pews. But the alternative
was worse: letting a killer get away wasn’t right, either. I didn’t need to take on
the responsibility, however. I could let the police handle it, as Detective Lissy
was always on me to do.

I had an in that the police didn’t, though. I spent hours every day with these people,
overheard their conversations, talked to them, danced with them. I couldn’t get away
from the fact that I was in a much better position to pick up on an inconsistency
or a lie than Lissy and his team were. Did the fact that it wasn’t, strictly speaking,
my job absolve me from responsibility? And the reward money would be hugely helpful
to the studio. I sucked on my lower lip, then realized I was ruining Ariel’s makeup
job and stopped. I glanced around and saw that the cameras weren’t pointed my way.
Sidling closer to Solange, who stood a few feet away looking like she’d rather be
at the dentist, I said, “I didn’t know I was signing up for this when I agreed to
be on the show.”

She stifled a laugh and said, without her usual rancor, “Me, either. He goes on like
this all the time, you know. I’m trying to get him to stiffen his knees for the Latin
dances and he’s trying to convert me. ‘Have you accepted Jesus as your personal savior?’
‘When was the last time you went to church?’ I finally told him I was a Wiccan to
get him to leave off.”

“Are you?”

She gave me a scornful look. “Of course not. It didn’t work anyway; he redoubled his
efforts. Doesn’t want me to go to hell, he says.”

I snorted a laugh and Nigel turned to glare at us. Solange and I bent our heads to
hide our expressions, like two schoolgirls caught passing notes in class, and I found
myself not quite hating her for a moment, which was ridiculous after what she’d done
to me. Must be the church.

“I guess Zane is helping you get over Rafe?” she said with a knowing look.

I went back to hating her. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Right. I saw that photo in the newspaper.”

I didn’t bother telling her what had really happened.

“I guess you don’t mind sharing.”

I frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?” Could Solange know that Zane and Danielle
had gone out a couple of times?

“Oh, please. Like you don’t know that he and Tessa were an item.”

“A long time ago. It’s been over for years.”

“It didn’t look over on the dance floor the night she disappeared. They were going
at each other like teenagers at the prom. Pretty convenient for you that Tessa’s out
of the picture.” With a sidelong look to see if her dart had struck home, she sauntered
up the aisle to join the rest of the group, which was clustered around a commemorative
plaque.