The Homicide Hustle

MORE PRAISE FOR

THE BALLROOM DANCE MYSTERY SERIES

Quickstep to Murder

“Perfect for all your dance-show fans. Barrick brings a light step and an upbeat tempo
to her debut. Readers will like the adjacency to the greater D.C. area (plot potential
there) and the interplay between generations. Who wouldn’t want to spice up their
lives with a little ballroom?”

—
Library Journal

“This snazzy, jazzy, and brilliantly choreographed mystery provides a clever twist
and unexpected turn on every page.”

—Agatha, Anthony, and Macavity award–winning author Hank Phillippi Ryan

“Ella Barrick dances through a complex plot without a false step in this fast-paced
series debut.”

—Sheila Connolly, national bestselling author of
Sour Apples

“A new series that looks like fun.”

—CA Reviews

“Barrick keeps them hopping with a classy little mystery set in the world of professional
dancing.”

—
Romantic Times

“[A]n engaging debonair amateur sleuth . . . will have readers dancing the Lindy.” —Genre
Go Round Reviews

“[A] great mystery.”

—Fresh Fiction

“Absolutely delicious. . . .The mystery is substantial, the murder is piquant, and
the characters are fun-loving, quirky, and provocative. . . . 10s across the board.”

—
Seattle Post-Intelligencer

Dead Man Waltzing

“Ella Barrick waltzes right into your heart with this lively murder mystery. . . .Barrick’s
writing is charming and impressive. The author of
Quickstep to Murder
is quickly dancing her way to the top of the mystery genre. This is a waltz you’ll
definitely not want to sit out.”

—Fresh Fiction

“Looking for something hip and fun to help fill the time until Bruno, Len, and Carrie
Ann return to your screen? Check out
Dead Man Waltzing
; it’s definitely worth your time.”

—The Season for Romance

“
Dead Man Waltzing
is a quick look into the sometimes glamorous world of international ballroom dancing,
with the fancy costumes and smoldering looks, but also with the reality as physical
in activity as it is, many still view it as a pleasant pastime rather than a competitive
activity that makes some of its participants very emotional about their work.”

—The Mystery Reader

Other Ballroom Dance Mysteries

Quickstep to Murder

Dead Man Waltzing

The Homicide Hustle

A B
ALLROOM
D
ANCE
M
YSTERY

E
LLA
B
ARRICK

OBSIDIAN

Published by the Penguin Group

Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street,

New York, New York 10014, USA

USA / Canada / UK / Ireland / Australia / New Zealand / India / South Africa / China

Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

For more information about the Penguin Group visit penguin.com.

First published by Obsidian, an imprint of New American Library,

a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

First Printing, April 2013

Copyright © Laura DiSilverio, 2013

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed
in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in
or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights.
Purchase only authorized editions.

OBSIDIAN and logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

ISBN 978-1-101-60958-3

PUBLISHER’S NOTE

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the
product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance
to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is
entirely coincidental.

The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility
for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

For Thomas, husband, best friend, and soul mate

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

The lovely and talented ballroom dancer Tatiana Keegan shared her expertise and anecdotes
with me and I owe her a big debt of gratitude. All errors are mine.

I find myself thanking the same group of folks again and again, and I do so one more
time. Thanks to the women in my critique group��Lin, Amy, and Marie—who take the time
to read my awkward and incoherent early drafts and make them better. Thanks to my
agent, Paige Wheeler, who takes the time to check in with me and see how I’m doing,
even if there’s no deal or problem in the works. Thanks to my husband, mother, girls,
and friends, who support me with cheerleading, brainstorming, and the occasional pint
of ice cream in the face of rejection, less than glowing reviews, or self-doubt. Thanks
especially to my editor, Sandy Harding, for caring enough about my novels to champion
them and work with me to make them better.

Chapter 1

(Wednesday)

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 pink 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. The television exposure
would be great for business, and if there was one thing I wanted more than a Blackpool
Dance Festival title, it was for Graysin Motion to be the premier ballroom dance studio
in the country. I immediately said “yes,” not stopping to consider that my new business
partner, Octavio “Tav” Acosta, might object.

Sitting on the edge of my desk, facing Tav where he sat on the loveseat under the
window that looked out on Old Town Alexandria, I gauged his initial reaction to the
news. His silence gave me time to admire the way the sun slanting through the window
highlighted his cheekbones and the straight line of his nose. I squelched the thoughts.
Tav Acosta was my business partner and I’d learned the hard way that mixing business
with romance was a bad idea when I caught my former fiancé, Tav’s half brother Rafe,
in bed with a Latin specialist. Rafe’s murder—no, I hadn’t shot him—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, expenses, and taxes—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
had been working well. Until now.

When he didn’t react immediately, I hurried to give him more details. “It’s not like
that other ballroom dancing show, where it all happens in Hollywood,” I said. “
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.” Swinging one leg with excitement, 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?
I came by this morning to tell you we got a tax bill saying that an error in the city’s
record keeping has resulted in us owing more than one hundred thousand dollars in
back taxes on this place.” He gestured to the building that was both my studio and
my home that my great-aunt Laurinda had willed to me. “We cannot afford a drop-off
in business right now. I am meeting with officials today to try and work out a payment
plan since there is no way we can come up with a sum like that.” His faint Argentinean
accent was more pronounced than usual.

The news hit me hard and distracted me momentarily from my excitement about the TV
show. Graysin Motion didn’t have a tenth of that in the bank. “Please tell me you’re
kidding.”

His expression said he wasn’t.

“What happened?”

“I will find out more at the meeting, but apparently your great-aunt was not conscientious
about paying the property taxes in her final years.”

More likely, she’d refused to pay taxes because the city hadn’t filled potholes in
the streets or repaired cracked sidewalks. Aunt Laurinda had insisted on value for
her money. She had gumption. She’d died two years ago, at ninety-seven, in the midst
of writing a scathing letter to the mayor about the city’s unsynchronized traffic
lights. I missed her.

“That makes it trickier,” I said. “We’ll have to cut back on some of our classes,
and rearrange private lesson times, but our students will be as excited about the
show as we are, hopefully.”

Tav looked decidedly unexcited, so I added hastily, “There’s prize money—enough to
make a dent in the taxes. And think of the amazing free advertising we’ll get when
twelve million people watch the show every Saturday night!”

“There is that,” Tav admitted. “Still, 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. “Everyone calls it
Blisters
.” The nickname, although unflattering, sort of fit, and I wondered if the show’s
producers had foreseen it when they titled the show.

“Thank you. Long after the show is over, Graysin Motion will depend 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 eight weeks, after all. Don’t
forget we’ll have tons of new students brought in by
Blisters
, too.” Levering myself off the desk, I approached Tav and bent so our faces were
on the same level. My blond ponytail dangled over my shoulder and I breathed in his
cedary scent. “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.

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. I
pushed the tax bill out of my mind, figuring we’d find some way to pay it before the
city repo-ed my house or threw me in jail for tax delinquency. Optimism was my middle
name. “It’ll be fun,” I said. “You’ll see.”

* * *

“Oh, my graciousness, this will being fun!” Vitaly Voloshin exclaimed later that day,
clapping his hands together. With lank, straw-colored hair, a willowy build, and a
face that was all sharp nose and angles, Vitaly came across as totally ordinary, maybe
even a bit loserish. But when he stepped on a dance floor . . . Pow! Originally from
Russia, Vitaly now lived in Baltimore with his life partner. We’d become ballroom
partners after Rafe’s death.

We were warming up in the ballroom, the long room that ran the length of my historic
Federal-era town house, 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 draperies.

“‘My graciousness’?” 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. His partner 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 nice, but I am not liking the grist for breakfast.”

“Grits.”

“Da.”

I joined Vitaly in lunging the length of the ballroom, 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.”
Blisters
assigned only two celebrities to each studio and they’d specifically said they wanted
me and Vitaly to partner this season’s competitors.

“Our studio will winning,” Vitaly pronounced.

I certainly hoped he was right since the prize money for the winning studio would
put Graysin Motion on firmer financial ground.

* * *

One week later, on Tuesday, once again in our ballroom, Vitaly stared at his
Blisters
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 seem reasonably athletics,” he said
approvingly. “Why are 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 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. 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 youth.
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 surly 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 savannah, fighting over a mate.”
He gestured at Vitaly.

Vitaly looked offended and I folded my lips to keep in a giggle. 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 gum 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, closemouthed. “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 and
Phoebe’s “real” reaction 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. I began to get an inkling
that being part of
Blisters
for two months might not be all fun and dancing.

* * *

I said as much to Maurice Goldberg in my office moments later. Nigel had shooed me
out of the ballroom so they could film Vitaly’s first efforts to teach Phoebe the
basics of ballroom dancing.

“Surely you didn’t think reality shows were completely unscripted, Anastasia?” Maurice
said, blowing on his coffee and then taking a sip. He looked up at me through graying
eyebrows. 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 eyed him where he sat in the chair in front of my desk, one gray flannel–clad leg
crossed over the other, navy blazer neatly buttoned. “I never thought about it,” I
confessed. “Maybe I should have before I signed us up, but you know how I am.”

“Impulsive.” He gave a small smile. “Do you know which other studios are competing?”

I shook my head, blond hair swishing across my shoulders. “That’s another thing they’re
keeping secret. We won’t know until the night of the press conference. Nigel and Tessa
are big on secrets and surprises and we can’t tell anyone anything. With all the confidentiality
agreements they had us sign, I won’t be able to tell myself when I need to go to the
bathroom.”