Quickstep to Murder

by Ella Barrick

  Quickstep to Murder

  Ella Barrick

  What if your dance partner, business partner, and fiance was stepping out with another woman? That's exactly what happens to Stacy Graysin, who shares ownership of a ballroom dance studio with the man who broke her heart, Rafe Acosta.

  But when Stacy discovers Rafe's dead body in the studio one dark night, the police suspect her of killing him. To clear her name and save her studio, Stacey teams up with Rafe's estranged cousin from Argentina, Tav, to find the real killer. And if Stacy doesn't watch her step, the killer may make this dance her last.

  Ella Barrick

  Quickstep to Murder

  The first book in the Ballroom Dance Mystery series, 2011

  To Amy, Lin, and Marie, who make

  my books better and the writing more fun.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Since my knowledge of ballroom dancing was limited to a few ankle-bruising lessons with my hubby, I am most grateful to Deborah and Richard Love, ballroom instructors extraordinaire; Marie Layton, critique partner and ballroom dancer; Dan Messenger, competition organizer and Dance Trends Newsletter guru; and all the dancers-amateur and professional-who chatted with me at the Denver Star Ball, for sharing their knowledge of ballroom dancing, competitions, studio ownership, and related topics. They get the credit for what’s right and I get the gong for any errors.

  Thanks also to my dedicated and long-suffering critique partners; Danielle DiSilverio for explaining unions to me; the world’s best agent, Paige Wheeler; and my sharp-eyed, insightful, and tactful editor, Sandy Harding.

  Finally, hugs, kisses, and bunches of gratitude to my husband and daughters, who fill my life with laughter, joy, love, and meaning.

  Chapter 1

  I’ve always thought of myself as a quickstep sort of person, full of joie de vivre, zing, and fun. Dancing the quickstep, a mix of the foxtrot and the Charleston, usually transports me to the 1920s and Zelda Fitzgerald, champagne and flappers. But it’s tough to have much joie in your vivre when you’re dancing with a partner you loathe, especially when he’s the ex-fiancé you caught boffing a Latin specialist. Sometimes, though, you just have to suck it up and fake the zing, like when you own a ballroom dance studio and eight members of a wedding party who want to learn to dance before the big day are watching you demonstrate the quickstep.

  Rafe and I glided across the smooth floor of our jointly owned studio, Graysin Motion, with the light and complex footwork that had won us more than one quickstep title. My sapphire dress belled out as we chasséed and spun the length of the ballroom to the corner in preparation for our run. Staying energetic and light on our feet, we skipped and hopped diagonally across the floor, our bodies staying upright and solid while our toes appeared to barely skim the ground. I tried to lose myself in the strains of Louis Prima’s “Sing, Sing, Sing” as it poured through the speakers, but Rafe broke into my reverie.

  “You’ve got to listen to reason, querida.”

  He kept his voice low, which deepened his sexy Argentinean accent. At least, I used to find it sexy until I discovered he had the fidelity of a mink.

  “Don’t call me sweetheart,” I said through my smile.

  “Stacy, the studio… barely covering costs. Must expand… class offerings.”

  Talking and quickstepping are pretty much mutually exclusive activities since you’re moving at about the rate of a sprinter attempting a four-minute mile, but Rafe and I were in superb shape and my anger drove me to gasp out a response. “If you think… I’ll let… you wreck… reputation… finest ballroom studio… D.C. area… by teaching hip-hop and tap and becoming… recital mill like Li’l Twinkletoes… No.”

  I was a pro. Despite my anger and frustration, I smiled at him, my expression a nice blend of mischief and carefree gaiety. I tried superimposing Jay Gatsby (the Robert Redford version-yum) over Rafe. It didn’t work.

  “Need the money.”

  “Maybe you need money. I’m fine.” We slowed for a moment for him to bend me into a deep arch in the corner. “I didn’t just buy a Lexus.”

  “Gift.”

  His dark eyes locked onto mine and for a second, a nonquicksteplike passion that had more to do with anger and frustration than the volatile chemistry that had brought us together as ballroom partners and then lovers bled into the dance. We’d been engaged for two years and had bought Graysin Motion before the chemistry exploded the afternoon I found him practicing a horizontal mambo with Solange Dubonnet. I had ended our engagement on the spot-was it really four months ago?-but severing our business relationship was proving more difficult since neither of us could afford to buy out the other’s share of Graysin Motion. We moved apart for some Charleston-inspired side-by-side figures and I recovered my bright smile.

  As the choreography brought us into a closed hold again, Rafe said, “Listen to reason, que-Stacy. Adding… bigger variety… children’s classes and… hosting… recital would bring in-just in costume sales-”

  “Over. My. Dead. Body.”

  The music ended and the bridesmaids and their escorts clapped. I dropped into a graceful curtsy, trying to catch my breath without looking like a gasping fish, the swishy sapphire of my demonstration dress draping around me.

  “That was fabu,” the blond bride said. “Now you can see why I wanted us all to learn to quickstep, honey. Doesn’t that look like fun?” She cast a sweet smile at her groom, a hulking young man who looked like he’d be more at ease in a rugby scrum than a ballroom dance studio.

  The groom nodded, gulping, as the best man said, “If you think racing around a dance floor at the pace of a zebra trying to outrun a cheetah looks like fun. It’ll be especially fun in a tux.”

  The bride ignored his sarcasm. “Can you teach us to dance like that?” She gestured to her bridesmaids, who looked eager, and the groomsmen, who looked like they’d prefer a root canal to dance instruction. Not unusual, in my experience.

  “When’s the wedding?”

  “Saturday,” she said sunnily.

  Teach these neophytes to quickstep in four days? Four weeks, maybe, if they were talented, coordinated, and aerobically fit. Rafe and I exchanged a look that said, “Yeah, right.” Our moments of agreement were rare these days and I suppressed a sad smile.

  “Of course,” Rafe said, offering his hand and a roguish smile to the slender bride. “Why don’t we get started?”

  The wedding party had barely limped out of the studio, the maid of honor complaining she’d be too stiff to walk down the aisle, when Taryn Hall and Sawyer Iverson, teenage dance partners preparing for the upcoming Capitol Ballroom Dance Festival, strolled in. We were taking advantage of spring break to work in some extra private coaching. I sipped from my water bottle as the teens put on their dance shoes and stretched. Sunlight streamed through the front windows of the studio, which ran the length of the town house. It showed scuffs on the oak floor that President James Madison may have trod when the house belonged to his cousin. I mentally factored the cost of refinishing the floor into the year’s budget and sighed.

  “Rafe! Yo, man, watch this.” Sawyer dropped his lanky body to the floor and executed some tricky hip-hop moves, ending by twirling on his head.

  “Where do you think you will use that?” Rafe asked with a grin. “America’s Got Losers?”

  I’d always liked the way he connected with the teens and even the kids in the beginners’ class.

  “Cold, man. Cold,” Sawyer said, shaking his head. The stud in his ear glinted. “The chicks dig it.”

  “In your dreams,” Taryn said, sinking into the splits and stretching forward until she lay flat against the floor.

  Rafe clapped his hands. “Let us get started, niños.” The couple took their
positions as he cued the music. I moved with them as they danced, changing an arm position, giving a reminder about keeping their frames up. They took the corrections in good part, focused on becoming better dancers.

  “No, no,” Rafe broke in over the foxtrot music. “Taryn, come here. Let me show you. Watch, Sawyer.”

  Taryn hurried toward Rafe, her smile showing her pleasure at the prospect of dancing with him. With midnight-dark hair and a milky complexion, Taryn was a wisp of a girl whose slightness belied her strength. She looked even paler today, I thought, as she stretched up within the frame of Rafe’s arms. They circled the room twice, Rafe narrating each piece of footwork, each gesture, as they danced. Sawyer glowered at the twirling pair until I offered him my hand and dragged him onto the floor.

  It ought, of course, to have been me demonstrating with Rafe. But the awkwardness between us made it difficult. I knew next month’s Blackpool Dance Festival, the prestigious invitation-only ballroom competition in England, would be our last competition together and it saddened me. He was the perfect partner for me in many ways; he was just the right height and his olive complexion and dark hair made a striking contrast with my paleness. In the heat of my fury and hurt at his betrayal, I’d initially told him I wouldn’t dance with him any longer. But after I’d auditioned a couple of prospective partners who answered my ads on the Internet dance sites (Disaster 1 and Disaster 2, I called them), and Rafe had danced with a couple of women who didn’t meet his standards (too whiny, no personality), we decided to keep our dance partnership intact until after Blackpool. To bolster the studio’s reputation, we agreed.

  Deep in thought, I didn’t see how it happened, but suddenly Taryn was on the floor. “I’m okay,” she said weakly as Rafe helped her to her feet. “I don’t know why… I felt dizzy…”

  Sawyer broke away from me and hurried to where Taryn stood supported by Rafe’s strong arm. “Taryn, let me-”

  “Don’t fuss,” she said. “I’m fine. Maybe just some water.”

  Sawyer jogged to her gym bag and pawed through it, searching for her bottle. Rafe said something to her in a low voice and she shook her head vehemently. When Sawyer trotted up with the water, Rafe stepped aside, but his eyes were full of concern as they dwelled on Taryn. Watching the way she trembled as she brought the bottle to her lips, I wondered if she had an eating disorder. Unfortunately, in a sport that prized thinness and a ripped physique, eating disorders were all too common. Taryn’s symptoms fit the bill-dizzy, thirsty, weaker than usual, thinner than a daffodil stem. I’d find a way to take her aside later, sound her out about it. Anorexia was nothing to mess around with, especially as a teen. A friend of mine from my ballet days had had to go away for several months to a live-in facility in Arizona to recover. She was thirteen. She’d never returned to dancing.

  I walked over to the girl and put my arms around shoulders that felt bony through her thin sweatshirt. “Come on, Taryn. I’ll call your mom and you can wait in my office until she comes. Maybe some cheese crackers would help. I’ve got some in my drawer.”

  “Oh, no! I couldn’t eat anything.” She put a hand to her mouth like she might throw up, confirming my suspicions.

  The music started up again as I led Taryn out of the studio. Sawyer trailed after us, but Taryn stopped him with a shake of her head.

  “I’ve got the car,” Taryn told me. “I can drive myself home.”

  “Are you sure you feel up to it? Maybe Sawyer-”

  “Yeah. The fresh air will do me good.” She managed a wan smile. “Thanks, Stacy.”

  I watched as she navigated the stairs that ran down the side of the house, creating a separate entrance for Graysin Motion just off my office. Her shoulders were slumped, whether from the weight of her dance bag or something else, I couldn’t tell. As I returned to the studio, I wondered if I should share my suspicions with her mother. No, I decided. I’d talk to Taryn first.

  Two hours later, I slouched into my office, kicked off my dance heels, and put one foot on the desk to massage it. Ahh. I was exhausted. Resting my head against the chair, I stared at Rafe’s desk, set at a right angle to mine. We used to work in here together, with him doing billing and payroll stuff while I worked on schedules and choreography. He hadn’t spent much time at his desk since our split, preferring to work from home on his laptop, and dust coated his computer and keyboard. Somehow, that film of dust made me want to cry. It wasn’t the empty desk that bothered me, I told myself; it was Rafe’s escalating irresponsibility.

  Rafe had walked out today without a word of explanation not long after Taryn left, leaving me to teach a beginning Latin class on my own. I’d wanted to put a spear between his shoulder blades but had to act like his leaving was no big deal. Grrr. His behavior the past month had grown increasingly strange-disappearing at odd times, whispered phone conversations he obviously didn’t want overheard, furtive meetings in a limo I’d seen parked outside the studio several times this week-and I’d had to cover more than one of his classes when he didn’t show. It wasn’t like him. He knew as well as I did that reliability was critical to the studio’s success. Students tended not to come back if their instructors didn’t show up as scheduled. No duh, as my brother, Nick, would say.

  Rafe might have fewer morals than a feral cat, but up until now he’d been a conscientious businessman, scrutinizing the books, finding ways to cut costs, charming the customers into buying packages for multiple lessons. Then, three days ago, he’d shown up in the black Lexus, acting more uneasy than thrilled. And now he said it was a gift? Hmm. How come the gifts I received ran more to toaster ovens (Mom), eHarmony memberships (my sister, Danielle, who never liked Rafe), or tarty lingerie (assorted boyfriends) than high-performance sports cars? I must be doing something wrong.

  A commotion outside caught my attention. Barefoot, I crossed to the large front window to see what was going on. Graysin Motion was on the upper level of the Federal-era town house I lived in courtesy of Great-aunt Laurinda, who’d bequeathed it to me, and had two studios: the main dance floor where we held large classes, and a slightly smaller room suitable for one-on-one practice, which most of the pros who trained here used. We referred to them as the ballroom and the studio. The ballroom looked out onto the tree-shaded streets of Old Town,Alexandria, and if you craned your neck, you could just glimpse the Potomac River. My office sat across the wide hall and had been a small music room or parlor in another life. Now that Rafe had moved out-he’d held on to his condo when we got engaged but we’d spent our nights here more often than not-I lived alone downstairs, which made for the world’s easiest commute, especially in the Metro D.C. area.

  Down on the sidewalk, two dogs-a shaggy mutt and a boxer-lunged and barked at each other as their owners tried to pull them away. My gaze drifted past them and I saw the limo-at least I thought it was the same limo-that had picked Rafe up the other day. It was parked across the street. If Rafe was holed up in that limo, swilling champagne with a new lover while I worked my butt off-! On impulse, I hurried down the stairs that ran along the side of the house.

  My mother always said my lack of impulse control would get me into hot water someday. It already had. Like the time in high school with the Bunsen burner and the crepe paper. It was just a dinky fire; they didn’t really have to evacuate the whole school. Or the fountain incident… I shook the memories out of my head as I reached the ground level. Lifting my long skirt, I ran down the slate-paved walk to the street, wishing I’d taken time to put on some shoes as the hot walkway burned my soles. Judging from the cars slowing and honking, I must have been quite a sight: a five-foot-six barefoot blonde in a form-fitting gown that displayed a generous amount of cleavage and leg. I probably looked like an escapee from a charity ball or a musical revue, not the usual sunburned tourist or Ann Taylor-shopping yuppie you see clogging the sidewalks of Old Town at three in the afternoon.

  At the curb, I had to wait for a break in traffic. When the light down the street turned red, I wove my way thro
ugh the stopped cars, getting a couple of wolf whistles and invitations. I ignored them. The asphalt was so hot I barely touched each foot to the street before jerking it up; I felt like a prancing show horse. Panting, I reached the black limo, which idled at the curb. I couldn’t make out anything behind the heavily tinted windows. I knocked on the driver’s side window. Nothing. I rapped more insistently, bruising my knuckles. The window buzzed down a bare inch. I craned my neck, trying to see inside, but could make out only the dull gleam of expensive leather, a dashboard with enough electronics to pilot the space shuttle, and a sliver of profile topped by a chauffeur’s cap. Music played so softly I couldn’t identify it, and a hint of cigar smoke so expensive it didn’t make me retch drifted out.

  “Yes?” The voice was heavily accented, discouraging.

  “I’m looking for Rafael Acosta,” I said. “Is he with you? In there?” Boy, that was lame.

  Apparently, the driver thought so, too, because the window purred up again and the car moved forward slightly, forcing me back. As there was a steady stream of traffic behind me, stepping back posed life-threatening problems.

  “Hey, just give me a minute,” I yelled at the car, trying to inch down its length and reach the safety of the sidewalk.

  As nonresponsive as a shark, it nosed its way into traffic, pushing me aside. An Escalade blasted past, almost scraping my behind. That was too close for comfort-my rear end was one of my greatest assets on a dance floor, especially for Latin numbers that required a lot of hip rotation, what nondancers thought of as “booty shaking.” I teetered backward on my heels and windmilled my arms, knowing that if I fell, no one would even hit the brakes when their tires thumped over my body. D.C. drivers during rush hour wouldn’t slow down for the president or a volcanic eruption or an alien spaceship (as long as it didn’t land on the beltway). I flung myself forward and flopped over the trunk of the limo. It crept forward again and I felt my feet leave the roadway. Yikes! My hands scrabbled over the waxed surface, looking for purchase. Nothing. I got the ball of one foot down just as the car accelerated. One minute it was there, the next it was half a block away and gaining speed. I fell to my hands and knees in the spot it had vacated.