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Authors: Ella Barrick
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Tessa King, I needed to know more about
her. Zane obviously knew plenty, but he was out and about somewhere, if his mother
was to be believed. I could talk to Nigel . . . I wrinkled my nose at the thought
of seeking out the caustic producer, but he probably knew Tessa best, of all the cast
and crew. He was the logical person to start with if I wanted to learn more about
her. Reluctantly, I picked up the phone again and dialed.
Chapter 8
Nigel’s assistant said the producer was too busy to meet with me, but let fall the
information that he was currently coping with “talent issues” at Take the Lead with
Ingelido, one of the other studios competing on
Blisters
. I thanked the assistant sweetly, grabbed a yogurt to eat on the way, and headed
out the back door to my yellow Volkswagen Beetle where it sat under the carport. Take
the Lead with Ingelido was in the Tysons Corner area and I zipped around the beltway
to get there, hoping I’d be home again before rush hour traffic clogged I-495.
Marco Ingelido’s ballroom studio occupied a former roller skating rink. A neon top
hat logo signaled potential dancers from atop a sign that towered over the private
parking lot. As always, I eyed the lot enviously. In crowded Old Town Alexandria,
parking was at a premium and my town house didn’t have any off-street parking to offer
students. I knew a fair number of our female clients didn’t feel comfortable attending
our evening events because they didn’t like the parking situation. I’d long lusted
after the property that abutted my lot, a sixties-era building that had been a home,
a dental office, a bodega, and now sat empty. I’d love to buy the property and raze
the building to turn it into a parking lot, but the cost was way out of my reach.
I sighed and walked into Take the Lead. The color scheme inside the building was black
and gold like the logo, with flocked wallpaper and gilt mirrors in the entryway. Tacky,
I sniffed, preferring the gracious elegance of my historic townhome that had once
been owned by James Madison’s cousin. Old linoleum covered the floors, still showing
black streaks where skaters had skidded. The fact that Marco Ingelido hadn’t replaced
the lino made me wonder if the studio was doing as well as he always claimed it was.
An unmanned reception counter originally used to pass out roller skates now held class
schedules, brochures, and a selection of dance shoes.
From the half-open door leading to the dance floor came the sounds of an argument.
I crept closer to listen, putting my eyes to the crack. The dance floor was huge,
the former rink covered with wood flooring. The waist-high wall that encircled it
had gaps for dancers to enter or leave the floor. Nanette Fleaston, the pet psychic,
stood ten feet inside the door, her back to me, gesturing at Nigel Whiteman.
“Tessa’s death is a bad omen for the show,” Nanette said, her voice high-pitched and
fragile. She was delicately built, with sharp features and caramel-colored hair. If
she’d been a dog, she’d have been a Pomeranian. “Jezebel is most unhappy about it.”
“Who the f— hell is Jezebel?” Nigel bit out, his gaze landing on the camera in time
to censor his language. “You haven’t changed agents, have you?”
“My pig,” Nanette said reproachfully, gesturing toward the floor.
I leaned farther in, curious. A small, vaguely pink pig with a black spot on her back
sat near Nanette, snout pointed upward as if she was following the conversation. She
was cute in a piggy sort of way.
Nanette continued, “She’s a pedigreed, potbellied Viet—”
“Forgive me, luv, but I don’t give a flip what Miss Bacon-on-the-hoof thinks about
anything.”
An indignant oink came from Jezebel and she sprang to her feet. I suppressed a giggle.
“Well, I do,” Nanette said, drawing herself up with dignity. “In fact, I don’t know
if I can continue on with
her. Zane obviously knew plenty, but he was out and about somewhere, if his mother
was to be believed. I could talk to Nigel . . . I wrinkled my nose at the thought
of seeking out the caustic producer, but he probably knew Tessa best, of all the cast
and crew. He was the logical person to start with if I wanted to learn more about
her. Reluctantly, I picked up the phone again and dialed.
Chapter 8
Nigel’s assistant said the producer was too busy to meet with me, but let fall the
information that he was currently coping with “talent issues” at Take the Lead with
Ingelido, one of the other studios competing on
Blisters
. I thanked the assistant sweetly, grabbed a yogurt to eat on the way, and headed
out the back door to my yellow Volkswagen Beetle where it sat under the carport. Take
the Lead with Ingelido was in the Tysons Corner area and I zipped around the beltway
to get there, hoping I’d be home again before rush hour traffic clogged I-495.
Marco Ingelido’s ballroom studio occupied a former roller skating rink. A neon top
hat logo signaled potential dancers from atop a sign that towered over the private
parking lot. As always, I eyed the lot enviously. In crowded Old Town Alexandria,
parking was at a premium and my town house didn’t have any off-street parking to offer
students. I knew a fair number of our female clients didn’t feel comfortable attending
our evening events because they didn’t like the parking situation. I’d long lusted
after the property that abutted my lot, a sixties-era building that had been a home,
a dental office, a bodega, and now sat empty. I’d love to buy the property and raze
the building to turn it into a parking lot, but the cost was way out of my reach.
I sighed and walked into Take the Lead. The color scheme inside the building was black
and gold like the logo, with flocked wallpaper and gilt mirrors in the entryway. Tacky,
I sniffed, preferring the gracious elegance of my historic townhome that had once
been owned by James Madison’s cousin. Old linoleum covered the floors, still showing
black streaks where skaters had skidded. The fact that Marco Ingelido hadn’t replaced
the lino made me wonder if the studio was doing as well as he always claimed it was.
An unmanned reception counter originally used to pass out roller skates now held class
schedules, brochures, and a selection of dance shoes.
From the half-open door leading to the dance floor came the sounds of an argument.
I crept closer to listen, putting my eyes to the crack. The dance floor was huge,
the former rink covered with wood flooring. The waist-high wall that encircled it
had gaps for dancers to enter or leave the floor. Nanette Fleaston, the pet psychic,
stood ten feet inside the door, her back to me, gesturing at Nigel Whiteman.
“Tessa’s death is a bad omen for the show,” Nanette said, her voice high-pitched and
fragile. She was delicately built, with sharp features and caramel-colored hair. If
she’d been a dog, she’d have been a Pomeranian. “Jezebel is most unhappy about it.”
“Who the f— hell is Jezebel?” Nigel bit out, his gaze landing on the camera in time
to censor his language. “You haven’t changed agents, have you?”
“My pig,” Nanette said reproachfully, gesturing toward the floor.
I leaned farther in, curious. A small, vaguely pink pig with a black spot on her back
sat near Nanette, snout pointed upward as if she was following the conversation. She
was cute in a piggy sort of way.
Nanette continued, “She’s a pedigreed, potbellied Viet—”
“Forgive me, luv, but I don’t give a flip what Miss Bacon-on-the-hoof thinks about
anything.”
An indignant oink came from Jezebel and she sprang to her feet. I suppressed a giggle.
“Well, I do,” Nanette said, drawing herself up with dignity. “In fact, I don’t know
if I can continue on with
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