The Homicide Hustle (5 page)

Lissy’s expression said he wasn’t surprised I had no real alibi. “Thank you, Ms. Graysin,
I think that’s all . . . for now.”

“How did she die?”

Adjusting his tie tack so it sat straight, Lissy gave me a considering look. “We don’t
have the autopsy results yet, but she was fished out of the Potomac by a kayaker early
this morning.” Apparently satisfied with my horrified expression, he tucked his notebook
into his inner pocket, said good-bye, and left.

Chapter 7

I barely had time to wrap my mind around what Detective Lissy had told me when the
door to the exterior stairs, the ones students and staff used so they didn���t have
to come through my living area to get to the studio, creaked open. The clicking of
toenails on the wooden floors told me who had arrived. Sure enough, a moment later,
Hoover trotted into the office, tail wagging, and laid his large head on my desk.
The doleful expression in his brown eyes told me he hadn’t had a morsel to eat in
forever and that he’d appreciate a nibble of the peanut butter crackers he could smell
in my desk drawer. I was happy to split a packet of crackers with him. The size of
a calf, Hoover was the harlequin Great Dane who belonged to Mildred Kensington, one
of our more elderly students who danced with more enthusiasm than technique. He came
to classes with her, usually lying in a sunny spot on the floor, and had become an
unofficial studio mascot.

I waited half expectantly for Mildred’s cheery voice, but it was Maurice Goldberg
who walked into the office. “Dog sitting again?” I asked, crumpling up the cracker
wrapper and slipping it into the trash can. Hoover swiped a long tongue over his muzzle,
disposing of crumb evidence, and we both turned innocent gazes on Maurice.

“Mildred’s gone to visit her daughter in Oshkosh and you know she hates to kennel
Hoover. I’m house-sitting for her.”

“What about Cyd and Gene?”

“The cats are with me, of course. They keep Hoover in line.”

Hoover woofed his outrage at the idea that he answered to any member of the feline
species, and we laughed.

“Where is everyone?” Maurice asked. “I thought they were filming today.”

“They were. We were. Right up until Detective Lissy walked in and told us Tessa King
was dead.” Maurice looked aghast and I added, “They’re treating it as a homicide.”
Saying the words aloud gave me pause. “You know, he didn’t actually say they thought
someone killed her. He said they fished her out of the Potomac this morning. It could
have been an accident.”

“Or suicide. What a tragedy.”

“Oh, I can’t see Tessa—” I bit off the rest of what I was going to say. How well did
I know Tessa King, anyway? Not well at all. She might have an incurable illness, for
all I knew, or boyfriend troubles, or a history of depression. Lissy
had
asked about Tessa’s moods. Maybe the police had a reason to suspect suicide. The
thought both relieved and saddened me. I told Maurice about Lissy’s interrogation.

Maurice listened thoughtfully from where he sat on the love seat with one ankle resting
on the opposite knee, absently picking white Hoover hairs off his gray flannel trousers.
“It’s a tragedy,” he said, “no matter how it happened. She was so young.” He straightened.
“However, we must be practical, Anastasia. Another death associated with Graysin Motion
is not going to look good.”

“Corinne wasn’t associated with the studio,” I said weakly.

“But Rafe was. And now Tessa.”

“She’s from Hollywood,” I said. “She didn’t live here. So no one can say—”

“You know the newspapers will mention Graysin Motion when they report her death. If
it turns out to be murder, and the killer is someone associated with the show . . .”

He trailed off to let me assimilate the bad publicity consequences for my studio.
I slammed shut my half-open middle desk drawer with unnecessary force. “Being on
Blisters
was supposed to be good publicity for us!”

“You need to get out in front of this, find out the truth about what happened before
it turns into a media circus and the studio loses clients.” Maurice eyed me seriously.
Hoover lifted his head, disturbed, perhaps, by Maurice’s tone.

“Me?”

“You have a knack for investigation, Anastasia.”

“I’m a ballroom dancer, not Jethro Gibbs.”

“Be that as it may.” Maurice smiled the smile that must have beguiled many a lonely
widow or divorcée on one of his cruise ships.

I
did
have the afternoon free since clearly filming was disrupted for the day. “Fine. Where
do we start?”

* * *

Maurice and I agreed we needed more information about how and when Tessa had died.
“If it was an accident, or a suicide, and Detective Lissy was just covering his bases
with his questions this morning, it won’t get much play in the media,” I pointed out.
Thus, we scanned Internet reports of her death. They didn’t tell us anything we didn’t
already know, but they reinforced our fears for the studio’s reputation since several
of the articles mentioned that Tessa was in town to oversee production of
Blisters
and named the competing studios and celebrities.

Tapping a peach-polished fingernail on my tooth, I pondered my options after Maurice
went into the ballroom to teach a Standard class. Tango music thrummed through the
studio. Detective Lissy was not going to tell me anything about how Tessa died. Who
else—? The answer came to me: Kevin McDill. A longtime reporter for the
Washington Post
I’d met investigating Rafe’s death
,
he had to have contacts in the coroner’s office, someone who could tell him what
the autopsy report said. And he owed me. I had the phone in my hand, preparing to
dial, when someone knocked on the outside door. I got up to answer it, Hoover padding
curiously at my heels.

An attractive woman I didn’t recognize stood on the landing. Her suit, hair, and makeup
said “high maintenance.”

“Can I help you?”

“This
is
Graysin Motion, where
Blisters
is filming, right?” Her voice suggested she didn’t really think she might be wrong.

“Yes, but—”

“Good. I need to see Zane right away.” Her designer-shod foot tapped and she slid
her large sunglasses onto her head, revealing hard eyes and unlined skin.

I eyed her, wondering if she really knew Zane or if she was some kind of stalker.
“Zane’s not here.”

“Oh, please. I heard about what happened to Tessa. I’ve got to assure myself he’s
all right.” She made as if to push past me, but I blocked her. She was about my height—five
foot six—and her sleeveless sheath revealed toned arms, but I figured I could take
her.

She gave me a frosty look. “If you don’t let me in to see Zane right this minute,
I’ll get your ass fired from this show. Zane will say he’d rather dance with a rabid
baboon than you, and your tight little dancer’s fanny will be out the door.”

Who was this witch? Zane’s agent, maybe. I didn’t care who she was: no one talked
to me like that. “You’re trespassing,” I said flatly. Hoover stuck his head past my
thigh and growled deep in his throat. I patted him.
Good dog.

The woman gave Hoover a wary look. “I’m allergic to dogs.”

I didn’t respond. I was tempted to let Hoover chase her down the stairs, but I wasn’t
sure if the studio’s insurance would pay up if she took a tumble, so I kept a hand
on his collar.

“Look,” she said in a more conciliatory voice, “we got off on the wrong foot. I was
just worried. You can’t blame a mother for getting a little uptight when her son might
be in peril.” She tried a thin, closed-lip smile.

It took me a split second to process what she’d said. “You’re Zane’s
mother
?” I mentally upped her age a good ten years. I didn’t see much resemblance to Zane.
She had dark hair where his was blond, and brown eyes to his hazel. Her nose was too
straight, lacking the slight bump that gave his character.

“Kim Savage.” She extended a slim hand and I reluctantly shook hands with her.

“Come on in, I guess.” I pulled the door wider. “Zane’s really not here, though. After
the police questioned him, he left. I don’t know where he went.”

“The police interrogated him? That’s just great! After all I’ve been doing to rejuvenate
his career, he gets tangled up in a murder.” She huffed a sigh and strode past me
into the studio, looking around curiously. “I’ve been lobbying for eighteen months
to get him on
Ballroom with the B-Listers
, calling in favors and—” She shot me a look. “Well, never mind. His career’s been
in the doldrums ever since
Hollywood High
got canceled, and this is his best shot at a comeback. I’ve been in talks with James
Cameron about his new movie, and I can’t believe it might all fall apart because of
that—” She folded her lips together. “One shouldn’t speak ill of the dead. But she
was never good for Zane, never.”

Without a knock or a by-your-leave, she opened the ballroom door and peered in at
the class. Music swirled into the hall. They’d moved on to a foxtrot and Kim Savage
watched the dancers for a moment. Maurice caught sight of us and lifted his brows,
but I shook my head.

“He’s not here,” she said.

I resisted the “duh” that sprang to my tongue. “Did you try the hotel?”

“He’s not there, either. Where could he be?” A line appeared between her brows.

She was acting more like Zane was a fifteen-year-old who’d missed his curfew instead
of a man in his mid-thirties. I guessed Kim Savage might be the poster child for “stage
mothers.”

“Look, I’m sorry I barged in like this. If Zane comes by, or if you hear from him,
would you let me know?” She handed me a card with her name and a phone number on it.
Perhaps inferring from my expression that I was unlikely to tattle on Zane, she said,
“Tell him to call me, okay?”

Turning on her stiletto heels and making a big circle around Hoover, she headed for
the door. She turned, hand on the doorknob. “Oh, and Stacy—I can call you Stacy, right?”
Without waiting for an answer, she went on, “When things settle down a bit, you and
I should have a chat. I’ve got some ideas for dance routines that will help Zane—and
you—get viewer votes.” Sliding the sunglasses over her eyes, she was gone.

“An attractive woman,” Maurice observed from behind me. I hadn’t heard him come out
of the ballroom. His students trickled into the hall, taking a water break. I heard
the toilet flush.

“Zane’s mommy dearest.”

“Really?” Maurice crossed to the window at the end of the hall that looked onto the
street fronting the house. I joined him. We watched Kim Savage slide, with a display
of shapely calf, into an illegally parked Jaguar convertible. “Well preserved.”

“If you like your women Monroe-esque and stuffed into Spanx.” I knew I wasn’t being
quite fair; Kim Savage had the kind of hourglass figure many men found irresistible,
even if she needed a little undergarment help to make that knit sheath fit so smoothly.

“I do.” Maurice grinned at me. “I remember her now. She made a couple of movies in
the seventies, pretty campy stuff. She gave Raquel Welch and Ann-Margret a run for
their money when it came to the sex kitten roles. Va-va-voom.” He waggled his brows.

I was mildly interested that Kim Savage had been an actress, but that didn’t make
me like her any better. “She has choreography ideas she wants to ‘share’ with me.”

“Ah-hah. That’s why you’re being snippy. Presumptuous of her, I grant you.” Rounding
up his students, Maurice herded them back into the ballroom for the second half of
the lesson. Hoover followed them in.

I traipsed to the door at the far end of the hall marked P
RIVATE
and descended the interior stairs to my living quarters. I’d decided a little privacy
was in order for my conversation with Kevin McDill. I made myself a cup of coffee
and settled in at the scarred kitchen table, wishing for the thousandth time I could
afford to have the garish turquoise tile counter replaced with granite or one of those
new recycled glass countertops. However, given that I cooked only about twice a month,
I had to use my limited funds on higher priorities—like keeping my dance studio afloat.

McDill seemed pleased but wary to hear from me. When I told him why I was calling,
silence came over the line, broken only by sounds I finally identified as the reporter
working his mouth around his omnipresent toothpick. I visualized his seamed, walnut-colored
face, and the reading glasses that would be halfway down his nose. “I’ve got someone
I can talk to,” he finally said. “If they only found the body this morning, though,
the autopsy might not be complete. I’ll give you a call when I know something. You
owe me.” He hung up.

I set the phone down, satisfied. A few minutes’ thought told me it made no sense to
sit here and wait for McDill to call back; it might be hours before he knew anything.
If I was going to find out what happened to Tessa King, I needed to know more about
her. Zane obviously knew plenty, but he was out and about somewhere, if his mother
was to be believed. I could talk to Nigel . . . I wrinkled my nose at the thought
of seeking out the caustic producer, but he probably knew Tessa best, of all the cast
and crew. He was the logical person to start with if I wanted to learn more about
her. Reluctantly, I picked up the phone again and dialed.

Chapter 8

Nigel’s assistant said the producer was too busy to meet with me, but let fall the
information that he was currently coping with “talent issues” at Take the Lead with
Ingelido, one of the other studios competing on
Blisters
. I thanked the assistant sweetly, grabbed a yogurt to eat on the way, and headed
out the back door to my yellow Volkswagen Beetle where it sat under the carport. Take
the Lead with Ingelido was in the Tysons Corner area and I zipped around the beltway
to get there, hoping I’d be home again before rush hour traffic clogged I-495.

Marco Ingelido’s ballroom studio occupied a former roller skating rink. A neon top
hat logo signaled potential dancers from atop a sign that towered over the private
parking lot. As always, I eyed the lot enviously. In crowded Old Town Alexandria,
parking was at a premium and my town house didn’t have any off-street parking to offer
students. I knew a fair number of our female clients didn’t feel comfortable attending
our evening events because they didn’t like the parking situation. I’d long lusted
after the property that abutted my lot, a sixties-era building that had been a home,
a dental office, a bodega, and now sat empty. I’d love to buy the property and raze
the building to turn it into a parking lot, but the cost was way out of my reach.

I sighed and walked into Take the Lead. The color scheme inside the building was black
and gold like the logo, with flocked wallpaper and gilt mirrors in the entryway. Tacky,
I sniffed, preferring the gracious elegance of my historic townhome that had once
been owned by James Madison’s cousin. Old linoleum covered the floors, still showing
black streaks where skaters had skidded. The fact that Marco Ingelido hadn’t replaced
the lino made me wonder if the studio was doing as well as he always claimed it was.
An unmanned reception counter originally used to pass out roller skates now held class
schedules, brochures, and a selection of dance shoes.

From the half-open door leading to the dance floor came the sounds of an argument.
I crept closer to listen, putting my eyes to the crack. The dance floor was huge,
the former rink covered with wood flooring. The waist-high wall that encircled it
had gaps for dancers to enter or leave the floor. Nanette Fleaston, the pet psychic,
stood ten feet inside the door, her back to me, gesturing at Nigel Whiteman.

“Tessa’s death is a bad omen for the show,” Nanette said, her voice high-pitched and
fragile. She was delicately built, with sharp features and caramel-colored hair. If
she’d been a dog, she’d have been a Pomeranian. “Jezebel is most unhappy about it.”

“Who the f— hell is Jezebel?” Nigel bit out, his gaze landing on the camera in time
to censor his language. “You haven’t changed agents, have you?”

“My pig,” Nanette said reproachfully, gesturing toward the floor.

I leaned farther in, curious. A small, vaguely pink pig with a black spot on her back
sat near Nanette, snout pointed upward as if she was following the conversation. She
was cute in a piggy sort of way.

Nanette continued, “She’s a pedigreed, potbellied Viet—”

“Forgive me, luv, but I don’t give a flip what Miss Bacon-on-the-hoof thinks about
anything.”

An indignant oink came from Jezebel and she sprang to her feet. I suppressed a giggle.

“Well, I do,” Nanette said, drawing herself up with dignity. “In fact, I don’t know
if I can continue on with this show, not under the circumstances. Jezebel says—”

“Let me remind you that you signed a contract,” Nigel said, his jaw tightening. “I’ve
got a raft of lawyers ready to sue you for any breach, so lace up your dance shoes
and make like Little Miss Twinkletoes, hm?” He smiled broadly, but his swooping eyebrows
gave him a menacing aspect.

I couldn’t see Nanette’s reaction, but I heard her gasp. Before she could say more,
however, Marco Ingelido glided over to them. Six feet of tall, dark, and handsome,
even if a bit long in the tooth at near sixty, Marco put an arm around Nanette’s shoulders.
“Let’s try the promenade again, Nanette. You really have a feel for the waltz and,
with a little more practice, we could be the high-scoring couple Saturday.”

Some of the rigidity left her shoulders and she let Marco lead her onto the dance
floor, Jezebel trotting behind. Nigel gave a satisfied nod and I was about to approach
him when his iPhone buzzed. He answered it and I hesitated.

“Absolutely, luv,” he said after a moment of listening. “Everything’s under control.
What do you have on—”

“Spying on the competition, Stacy?”

The hateful voice made me straighten and turn, furious at being caught in such an
ignominious position. I might as well have had my ear against a glass pressed to the
wall. “Just waiting for Nigel to get off the phone, Solange,” I said as airily as
I could.

The svelte redhead snorted delicately. Her hair was more a strawberry blond now than
the flame it had been when she filled in at Graysin Motion, but she looked as fit
and revoltingly sexy as ever in a mint-colored top that flaunted her six-pack and
leggings that showed a mile of slim leg. “I hope your ankle’s not going to hold you
and your partner back,” I said with spurious sympathy.

“All better.” She rotated it in both directions to demonstrate. “Thanks for asking.”
She pretended like she thought I was truly concerned. “Mickey’s got a real aptitude
for ballroom dance,” she went on, “especially for someone who used to think all dancing
was sinful. Luckily, he’s seen the error of his ways. I’m doing what I can to convert
him.” She smiled. “How’s it going with the boy wonder? Zane Something, right? I can’t
have been more than two or three when his show got canceled, so I don’t think I’d
ever heard of him until the press conference.”

She was probably three or four years younger than me, but no way had she been a toddler
when
Hollywood High
went off the air. “Most of the
Blisters
voting demographic were wild for Zane and
Hollywood High
,” I said, “and they’re going to be amazed by his dancing. He’s got the grace and
charm of Gene Kelly, and the athleticism of Derek Hough.”

“Really?” Solange’s thin eyebrows soared. “Well, Mickey’s very strong and he can convey
the emotion of each dance so well it’ll make the women cry. You know tears mean votes
on this show.”

“I heard his congregation was in tears when he got caught with that underage prostitute.
Think they’ll vote for him?”

Solange lifted her chin to come back with another “my celeb’s better than your celeb”
zinger when I noticed Nigel had hung up and was coming toward us. “Sorry, Solange,”
I said. “Gotta go. Nigel!” I intercepted him as he came through the door.

White teeth glinting, he looked from me to Solange and back again. “Do I smell female
testosterone in the air? A catfight brewing? Splendid idea! Let’s get it on film.
Larry!”

“No, no,” I said, laying a hand on his arm. “Solange and I were just chatting while
I waited for you.”

I could see Solange weighing the potential benefits of an on-air spat with me, and
my eyes urged her to turn Nigel down. “Think how hard it would be for Ariel to cover
scratch marks on our faces,” I said to Nigel, hoping it would give Solange pause.

After half a beat of hesitation, Solange smiled with fake sweetness and said, “Stacy
and I go way back, Nige. We’re like . . . sisters.”

I sent Danielle a silent apology for every argument we’d ever had, and especially
for the time I told her she was the worst sister ever.

“That’s not what I heard,” Nigel said, studying us from under his brows, “but it can
wait. It might be better after a round or two of competition.”

Solange melted away, joining her evangelist partner, Mickey Hazzard, on the dance
floor. I wanted to watch them dance, scope out Hazzard’s potential, but talking to
Nigel was more important. “I’m horrified by what’s happened to Tessa,” I said.

“You’re horrified, luv? They made me identify her body,” Nigel said, looking like
he’d appreciate a shot of liquor. He seemed a bit green, but maybe it was the lousy
lighting in the foyer. Marco should invest in higher wattage bulbs.

I didn’t want to think about what Tessa must have looked like after more than twenty-four
hours, possibly, in the Potomac at the height of summer. “Don’t think about her like
that. Try to remember her as she was the last time you saw her alive,” I urged Nigel.
“Which was when?” Sometimes, my subtlety amazes me.

“Late Tuesday afternoon,” he said absently, scrolling through a couple of texts. “We
were at the studio in Fairfax and she left to go back to the hotel. I met a friend
for dinner.”

“So you didn’t go to the nightclub that night with everybody else?”

“Not my scene, Stace,” he said, flashing a sharky smile. “Can’t do business with a
deafening techno-pop sound track.”

“You and Tessa were all about business, I guess.” I trailed after him as he headed
for the door and the parking lot. “How did you two become partners?”

Nigel halted and a reminiscent smile played around his lips. “On a blind date. A mutual
friend hooked us up. After we got the sex out of the way, we realized we had more
in common as business partners than lovers and we made it legal: we formed a limited
partnership, White King Productions.”

“How romantic,” I murmured.

He caught my tone. “After what happened with Rafe Acosta boning the sultry Solange,
I’d think you of all people would appreciate the benefits of a business partnership
untainted by sex.”

I drew back slightly and fumbled for a response. “You must have some research team,”
I finally said.

“That’s the least of what they uncovered researching all of the
Blisters
possibles. You don’t think the chemistry on this show just happens, do you? No. It’s
the end result of months of hard work by a large team, the least of which is the talent.”
He gave me a dismissive look. “Replacing Tessa will be hard, maybe impossible, but
even without her this is going to be the show’s best season ever. Explosive!”

I didn’t like his secretive smile. He pushed through the door and the harsh afternoon
sunlight made me blink.

“Got a meeting,” Nigel said, striding toward a Mercedes roadster. “Filming tomorrow.
Your place. Eight. Ta, luv.”

“Can you think of anyone who was mad at Tessa?” I called after him. “Someone who might
have wanted to hurt her?”

He spun around, sunlight glinting off his platinum watch, and took two steps toward
me. He studied my face. “You’re investigating Tessa’s death, aren’t you, like you
did your partner’s?”

I couldn’t read his expression. I thought he’d be angry, but he seemed more thoughtful.

He didn’t wait for me to reply, but said slowly, “This could be big. Huge. Hot ballroom
dancer tracks down murderer.” Bouncing his fist lightly off his mouth, he said, “We
could have the camera follow you while you do interviews. If you come up with anything,
we can be there for the confrontation . . . on live TV. Brilliant!”

I stared at him, openmouthed, aghast. “No! I mean—” How did I get myself out of this
one? Footage of me trying to ID a murderer was a) going to royally piss off Detective
Lissy and b) totally link Graysin Motion and murder in the minds of the viewing public,
exactly what Maurice and I had been trying to avoid.

“We don’t even know that she was murdered,” I said desperately. “It was probably an
accident or . . .” I couldn’t bring myself to say the S-word. “I was just curious
about Tessa. She seemed so competent and ambitious. Forget I said anything. It’s none
of my business.” I backed up as I spoke, trying to reach my Beetle and escape. Sweat
poured down my sides and I didn’t know if it was all due to the heat rising off the
asphalt or from anxiety about the way my plan was backfiring.

Nigel furrowed his forehead, thinking. “She was murdered. That police detective called
and told me so not five minutes before you walked in. We’ll offer a reward,” he said
slowly, “maybe fifty thou for information leading to the arrest of Tessa’s killer.
We’ll make a big announcement, lots of hoopla, get more publicity for the show. It’s
a brilliant idea, Stace—brilliant.” Sliding into the low-slung Mercedes two-seater,
he gunned the motor and was gone with his last “brilliant” still hanging in the air.

I climbed into the Beetle feeling anything but brilliant. Moronic, doltish, idiotic,
stupid . . . those words better summed me up.