Dead Man Waltzing (25 page)

Read on for a sneak peek at the next Ballroom Dance Mystery,

coming in Spring 2013 from Obsidian.

If Nigel told me one more time to manufacture a wardrobe malfunction for the show’s first night of live competition, I was going to slap him.

“Stacy-luv,�� he said, Cockney origins evident in his accent, “we can make this strap a breakaway so sometime during the dance it will separate and—pop!” He ran a stubby forefinger with manicured nail down the purple spaghetti strap of my costume, stopping with his finger indenting my left breast through the satin. “Pop goes your boob and pop go the ratings!” He beamed.

I slapped him.

* * *

Three weeks ago, when Nigel Whiteman, coproducer of the hit series
Ballroom with the B-Listers,
phoned to announce the show was going to film its next season in the Washington, D.C., area, and said he wanted Graysin Motion to be one of the featured studios, I leaped at the opportunity. The chance to teach a Hollywood has-been or never-quite-was to dance on national TV was not one I was likely to pass up. I immediately said yes, not stopping to consider that my new business partner, Tav Acosta, might object.

Tav frowned in concentration when I told him about the opportunity and explained how the show worked. “It’s not like that other ballroom dancing show, where it all happens in Hollywood,” I said. Sitting on the edge of my desk, facing Tav where he sat on the loveseat under the window that looked out on the busy Old Town Alexandria street, I swung one leg with excitement. “
Ballroom with the B-Listers
goes to a different city each time and pits local ballroom dance studios against each other by giving them each two celebrities, a man and a woman, to train. The broadcasts are done from different local venues, so it’s sort of a dance show, reality show, and travel show in one.” I kicked so hard my flip-flop flew off, landing in Tav’s lap. “Sorry.”

He gave a half-smile and handed me the orange rubber shoe. Then his handsome face got serious. “But, Stacy, how does a studio have time to work with the celebrities and do everything the show requires, and still run classes and train its private students?” His faint Argentinean accent gave the words a sexy edge.

He could recite a grocery list and make it sound sexy, I thought, before consciously squelching the idea. Tav Acosta was my business partner. I’d learned the hard way that mixing business with romance was a bad idea when I caught my former fiancé and business partner, Tav’s half-brother Rafe, in bed with a Latin dance specialist. Rafe’s murder—no, I hadn’t shot him, although I’d certainly thought about it—had brought Tav to Virginia. In his late thirties, he looked far too much like Rafe—lean face, long legs, dark hair and eyes—for my peace of mind. He’d inherited Rafe’s share of my beginning-to-be-successful ballroom studio and had decided to open a branch of his import-export business in the area and stay for a while to help run the studio. He was a whiz with money, payroll accounts, and expenses—all the things that made me want to drive a skewer into my temple. I handled the teaching and our instructors and the competing. Our partnership was working well. Until now.

“We’ll have to cut back on some of our classes,” I admitted. “But I’m sure our private students will be okay with a little rearranging of their lessons, too. They’ll be as excited about the show as we are.”

Tav looked decidedly unexcited, so I added hastily, “Think of the amazing free advertising we’ll get when twelve million people watch the show every Thursday night!”

“There is that,” Tav admitted. “Still, Stacy, we cannot afford to discourage any of our regular students. Long after this
Ballroom with the
— What did you call them?”

“B-listers. It means sort of second-tier celebrities.” Or third or fourth tier, I added to myself, recalling previous seasons’ competitors.

“Thank you. Long after the show is over, Graysin Motion will be depending on the competitive students to pay our bills and keep us in business.” A shock of black hair fell onto his forehead and he brushed it aside impatiently.

“They’ll still be here,” I said. “The show only runs six weeks, after all. Don’t forget we’ll have tons of new students brought in by BWTB, too.” Pushing myself off the desk, I approached Tav and bent so our faces were on the same level. My blond ponytail dangled over my shoulder. “Don’t you want to be on TV?”

“Por Díos, no!” He looked so horrified at the thought that I laughed.

“Well, I do.” I’d been on television before, of course, as a participant in international-level ballroom competitions, but this was different. This time the show would be about me, about my dancing and teaching. It would be fun.

“You will be breathtaking,” Tav said. “You will be so popular with the viewers that they will whisk you away to Los Angeles to start a new career.”

Was there a teeny hint of insecurity in his voice? I studied his face but saw nothing there other than his usual calm confidence. Still . . . “I wouldn’t go,” I said. “My life is here. I don’t want to be a celebrity forever, just long enough to double our student numbers.”

Tav threw up a hand. “Okay, Stacy. You win. Tell them Graysin Motion will be happy to compete.”

Since I’d already committed the studio, I was relieved I’d gotten Tav to agree. “It’ll be fun,” I said. “You’ll see.”

* * *

“Oh, my graciousness, this will being fun!” Vitaly Voloshin exclaimed, clapping his hands together. Originally from Russia, Vitaly now lived in Baltimore with his significant other. We’d become ballroom partners after Rafe’s death.

We were warming up in the ballroom, the long room that ran the length of the historic Federal-era town house I’d inherited from my great-aunt Laurinda, which housed Graysin Motion on the top floor and my living quarters on the ground floor. Harsh July sunlight poured through the front windows, making my eyes water, and I moved to draw the drapes.

“‘My gracious’?” The phrase didn’t sound like Vitaly. I
shush
ed the drapes closed.

“John’s mother, she is visiting,” he explained, “and this she is saying all the times.” He smiled at himself in the mirrors that lined our ballroom studio, admiring his teeth, I knew. John had paid for extensive cosmetic dentistry not long ago and Vitaly was still fascinated with the toothpaste ad smile that had replaced his formerly crooked and tannish teeth.

“Where’s she from?”

“The Alabamas. She is being very nice, but I am not liking the grist for breakfast.”

“Grits.”

“
Da
.” Lunging the length of the ballroom, his thigh muscles visible through the thin warm-up pants, Vitaly asked, “When does the show coming here?”

“Three weeks.” I joined him in the lunges, adding a high kick every time I straightened. “We’ve got a lot to do to get ready. We’ll have to let all our students know, see what changes we need to make in the class schedule . . . Maybe Maurice can pick up some of the classes I teach and work with your private students, since he won’t be competing.” Maurice Goldberg was our other instructor, a former cruise ship dance host who admitted to being “sixtyish” but whom I suspected was more like seventy. He was a big hit with our more mature, well-off female clients, the bread and butter of any ballroom studio. I hoped he would be okay with the fact that he wouldn’t be featured on the show. BWTB assigned only two celebrities to each studio and they’d specifically said they wanted me and Vitaly to partner this season’s competitors.

“You told them Vitaly is not dancing with fat womens, yes?”

“Absolutely,” I lied, crossing my fingers. I’d only seen a handful of heavy-set celebrities on BWTB in all its seasons, so I was hoping they didn’t pair Vitaly with a hefty partner since he had refused from day one to dance with our overweight students. I didn’t know the source of his prejudice, but he was adamant, so I hadn’t pushed the issue. “I’m sure they’ll pair you with someone skinny and sexy and beautiful.” Ninety-five percent of BWTB’s female celebrities fit that description, so I figured I was on safe ground.

* * *

One week later, once again in our ballroom, Vitaly stared at his BWTB partner in disbelief. “You is taller than Vitaly.”

“You are a runt.” Phoebe Jackson looked down her nose at him. Perhaps half an inch taller than his six feet, with medium dark skin and a half-inch-long Afro that hugged her skull, she exuded strength in a tank top that showed defined biceps and triceps. Strong, slightly arched brows drew in toward a broad nose as she extended a hand for Vitaly to shake.

Vitaly appraised her, running his gaze from her shoulders to the muscled thighs and calves displayed by a short denim skirt. “You is seem reasonably athletic,” he said approvingly. “Why is you being famous?”

“You’ve never heard of me?” Her tone hovered between affront and amusement. “I’m a kick-butt action star, baby. I whupped up on Jackie Chan in
Shanghai Serenade
and beat the crap out of Sly Stallone in
Rambo Meets Bimbo
. He was even shorter than you,” she added. “But, baby, was he in good shape, even though he’s got to be in his sixties. Mm-mm.” She smacked her full lips appreciatively.

I guessed Phoebe was in her early forties, but she looked damn fit for her age. “Nice to meet you, Ms. Jackson,” I said. “I’m Stacy Graysin.” We shook hands and eyed each other. The microphone pack was uncomfortable at the small of my back and I wiggled.

“Call me Phoebe. Miz Jackson is my granny.” She smiled. “You’ll get used to the mike pack.”

“Okay, okay,” Nigel Whiteman broke in from where he stood, arms crossed, behind the cameraman. In his mid-fifties, he had a compact body, a spray tan, and eyebrows that winged up from the bridge of his nose like Nike swooshes. His light brown hair was receding at the corners of his forehead, creating a widow’s peak effect I didn’t think he’d had in his twenties. He wore blue jeans and a gray T-shirt, which would have made him look like just one of the guys if he weren’t also wearing a platinum Rolex and Italian loafers. I’d learned in the three days since I’d met him that his smile rarely made it to his eyes, and even when he laughed at people’s jokes, it was more to avoid looking too cranky than because he found anything funny.

“Stace, Phoeb. Let’s not make nice, hm? Viewers like conflict and tension, not nicey-nicey. Try it again. Think two lionesses meeting up on the savanna, fighting over a mate.” He gestured at Vitaly.

Vitaly looked offended, and I pressed my lips together to keep a giggle in. We were getting a quick lesson in how much was real about reality shows. “Sure, Nige,” I said.

“Grrrrr.” I growled at Phoebe.

She burst into laughter, showing enough white teeth and gums to intimidate a real lioness, then high-fived me while Nigel frowned. “I like your style, girl.”

Vitaly and Phoebe and I filmed our “first meeting” three more times until Nigel was satisfied that we’d snarled enough.

“Where’s my partner?” I asked. I’d been on pins and needles for days, wondering who I’d be paired with.

“He couldn’t make it today,” Nigel said. “You’ll meet him tomorrow.”

“But you can tell me who it is now, right?”

“Uh-uh.” Nigel smiled, closed-mouthed. “We want to record the real surprise when you two meet for the first time. Makes for better television.”

I stifled my frustration and my urge to point out that we’d just filmed Vitaly’s and Phoebe’s “real” reactions to each other four times. “I can’t wait,” I said brightly, conscious that the camera was running and that I’d signed a contract saying the show could use whatever footage they obtained. I didn’t want to come across as surly or uncooperative; that would scare away potential clients. But at that moment I began to get an inkling that being part of BWTB for two months might not be all fun and dancing.