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Quickstep To Murder

Quickstep To Murder, September 2011
A Ballroom Dance Mystery #1
by Ella Barrick

Signet Obsidian
Featuring: Rafe Acosta; Stacy Graysin
304 pages
ISBN: 0451234545
EAN: 9780451234544
Kindle: B0052RES5O
Paperback / e-Book
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"Can a Dance Instructor Dance Her Way off the Suspect List?"

Fresh Fiction Review

Quickstep To Murder
Ella Barrick

Reviewed by Min Jung
Posted December 19, 2011

Mystery Cozy

Stacy Graysin is the co-owner and manager of Graysin Motion (it took me awhile to get the pun), a ballroom dance studio. The other owner is her dance partner and former romantic partner Rafe Acosta. What broke them up? When Stacy found him in bed with another woman. Unfortunately, Stacy is stuck with Rafe as her business partner since she isn't financially able to buy out his half of the business, but she has successfully managed to distance herself from him personally. Stacy thinks Rafe has been acting a little odd, and she wants to discuss both that and his recent ideas about which classes to add and which demographic groups to try to attract. But before they can have that conversation, Stacy finds Rafe's dead body in the studio, which is in the same building as her apartment. Because she was alone at night when she discovered the body, a suspicious detective begins investigating Stacy. The investigation heats up when Stacy can't find her gun, which is suspected to be the one used to kill Rafe. And things really heat up when Stacy reveals she didn't know Rafe hadn't changed his will -- so she thought she was inheriting his half of the business. Although she needs to find a way to continue teaching, prepare for the upcoming dance competition, and figure out what will happen to Rafe's half of the business, Stacy soon begins doing what she can to figure out who had a motive for killing Rafe. While she's doing this, she's trying to prove her own innocence, ready herself and her students for a competition, and keep Rafe's reputation clean when a local Congresswoman (one of Rafe's students) threatens to air his dirty laundry should Stacy not do some favours for her. QUICKSTEP TO MURDER is a great mystery that I zipped through quickly. Stacy is a great character, and she is such that I wished I could take dancing lessons from her (although I have the proverbial two left feet). I kept thinking that I knew who Rafe's killer was, but then a sprinkle of doubt would be thrown in, and I'd start over from scratch with my theories. Looking back, the author gave me everything I needed to solve the mystery, but she did it so artfully that I was kept guessing the entire book. I see that this is the first book in a new series, and I've marked this as a series that I definitely want to keep reading!

Learn more about Quickstep To Murder

SUMMARY

What if your dance partner, business partner, and fiancé 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.

Excerpt

Chapter One 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 floor. 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 non-quickstep-like 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 sarcastic interpolations. "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?"


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