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!
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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