death in the ballroom. The
police suspected me because we’d had some business arguments and recently broken off
our engagement, so I had to find the real killer.”
“Did you?”
I nodded again.
“Damn, girl,” Phoebe said admiringly.
“And is only little whiles since Stacy is finding who killed Corinne Blakely,” Vitaly
added, emerging from the ballroom in time to hear the end of our conversation. “Stacy
is bull on scent of the murderers.”
Phoebe, Nigel, and Larry looked puzzled, but Zane guessed, “Bulldog?”
“
Da
. The bulldog.”
“Isn’t it dangerous to go looking for killers?” Phoebe asked.
“I don’t—”
“She is getting shooted by Rafe’s murderer,” Vitaly put in. “And the studio was arsoned.
Poof!” he threw his arms over his head to indicate the flames.
“Damn, girl,” Phoebe said again.
“Rafe’s killer didn’t set the fire,” I said, anxious to get away from this discussion.
“Look, you can still see some of the charred boards.” I led them into the ballroom
and pointed out some of the blackened spots. I’d asked the floor refinisher to keep
as many of the singed planks as he could since they were original to the house, historic,
and I liked to imagine various Founding Fathers and their wives doing a Virginia reel
the length of this room, their feet sliding and clomping on these very boards.
Ariel appeared then, looking for Phoebe, and everyone went back to doing their jobs.
I heaved a huge sigh of relief, beginning to regret I’d ever asked question number
one about Tessa’s death. Beginning, in fact, to regret I’d ever signed on to do
Blisters
. I crossed to the stereo to slot in the CD that held our music, shoving it in a bit
more forcefully than necessary. The machine spit it out. I growled low in my throat
and Zane took the CD from my hand, inserting it gently.
“What was—” he started.
“Let’s just dance,” I said, too mindful of the camera rolling and Nigel lurking. We
worked for two hours without more than a five-minute water break and I eventually
relaxed, caught up in the music and the challenge of teaching a neophyte so much in
such a short time.
“You’ve got to be conscious of your lines, our lines,” I told Zane. “Look how your
hands flop. The line extends through your hands, through your fingers.” Bracing his
wrist, I told him to extend his fingers like he was reaching for the far wall. He
tried it, stiffly.
“Exactly! See how when I extend my leg, like so”—using my core to stabilize myself
I raised my right leg to above head height and pointed my toe—“and you grab it, we
form an inverted ‘V’? The judges are looking at our lines. Let’s try the whole dance
again.”
Zane groaned. “Do you practice this long every day? My quads are sore, my glutes are
sore, and my shoulders are so sore from holding this damn frame that I won’t be able
to lift my hands over my head tomorrow.” He ran his fingers through the damp strands
of hair sticking to his forehead. “Be careful, or I’ll get rid of you on Trade Day.”
Blisters
had a gimmick where the celebs could swap partners after the first night of competition
but before they knew how the viewing audience had voted. They were allowed to offer
any incentive they wanted—cash, a percentage of their audience votes, an onstage appearance
at their next concert or walk-on part in their next movie—to persuade a competitor
to trade pros. What was grossly unfair about the process, in my humble opinion, was
that the pro didn’t get a say in it. If the celebs wanted to swap, it was a done deal;
the pro had no more voice than if the stars were trading earrings or time-shares.
What was really, really unfair was that on Saturday night’s kickoff, if the celeb
was voted off, his or her new partner—not the original one—went, too.
“Oh, please.” I dismissed his whining with a wave of my hand. “I teach
police suspected me because we’d had some business arguments and recently broken off
our engagement, so I had to find the real killer.”
“Did you?”
I nodded again.
“Damn, girl,” Phoebe said admiringly.
“And is only little whiles since Stacy is finding who killed Corinne Blakely,” Vitaly
added, emerging from the ballroom in time to hear the end of our conversation. “Stacy
is bull on scent of the murderers.”
Phoebe, Nigel, and Larry looked puzzled, but Zane guessed, “Bulldog?”
“
Da
. The bulldog.”
“Isn’t it dangerous to go looking for killers?” Phoebe asked.
“I don’t—”
“She is getting shooted by Rafe’s murderer,” Vitaly put in. “And the studio was arsoned.
Poof!” he threw his arms over his head to indicate the flames.
“Damn, girl,” Phoebe said again.
“Rafe’s killer didn’t set the fire,” I said, anxious to get away from this discussion.
“Look, you can still see some of the charred boards.” I led them into the ballroom
and pointed out some of the blackened spots. I’d asked the floor refinisher to keep
as many of the singed planks as he could since they were original to the house, historic,
and I liked to imagine various Founding Fathers and their wives doing a Virginia reel
the length of this room, their feet sliding and clomping on these very boards.
Ariel appeared then, looking for Phoebe, and everyone went back to doing their jobs.
I heaved a huge sigh of relief, beginning to regret I’d ever asked question number
one about Tessa’s death. Beginning, in fact, to regret I’d ever signed on to do
Blisters
. I crossed to the stereo to slot in the CD that held our music, shoving it in a bit
more forcefully than necessary. The machine spit it out. I growled low in my throat
and Zane took the CD from my hand, inserting it gently.
“What was—” he started.
“Let’s just dance,” I said, too mindful of the camera rolling and Nigel lurking. We
worked for two hours without more than a five-minute water break and I eventually
relaxed, caught up in the music and the challenge of teaching a neophyte so much in
such a short time.
“You’ve got to be conscious of your lines, our lines,” I told Zane. “Look how your
hands flop. The line extends through your hands, through your fingers.” Bracing his
wrist, I told him to extend his fingers like he was reaching for the far wall. He
tried it, stiffly.
“Exactly! See how when I extend my leg, like so”—using my core to stabilize myself
I raised my right leg to above head height and pointed my toe—“and you grab it, we
form an inverted ‘V’? The judges are looking at our lines. Let’s try the whole dance
again.”
Zane groaned. “Do you practice this long every day? My quads are sore, my glutes are
sore, and my shoulders are so sore from holding this damn frame that I won’t be able
to lift my hands over my head tomorrow.” He ran his fingers through the damp strands
of hair sticking to his forehead. “Be careful, or I’ll get rid of you on Trade Day.”
Blisters
had a gimmick where the celebs could swap partners after the first night of competition
but before they knew how the viewing audience had voted. They were allowed to offer
any incentive they wanted—cash, a percentage of their audience votes, an onstage appearance
at their next concert or walk-on part in their next movie—to persuade a competitor
to trade pros. What was grossly unfair about the process, in my humble opinion, was
that the pro didn’t get a say in it. If the celebs wanted to swap, it was a done deal;
the pro had no more voice than if the stars were trading earrings or time-shares.
What was really, really unfair was that on Saturday night’s kickoff, if the celeb
was voted off, his or her new partner—not the original one—went, too.
“Oh, please.” I dismissed his whining with a wave of my hand. “I teach
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