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.