Free The Homicide Hustle by Ella Barrick

this show, not under the circumstances. Jezebel says—”
    “Let me remind you that you signed a contract,” Nigel said, his jaw tightening. “I’ve
     got a raft of lawyers ready to sue you for any breach, so lace up your dance shoes
     and make like Little Miss Twinkletoes, hm?” He smiled broadly, but his swooping eyebrows
     gave him a menacing aspect.
    I couldn’t see Nanette’s reaction, but I heard her gasp. Before she could say more,
     however, Marco Ingelido glided over to them. Six feet of tall, dark, and handsome,
     even if a bit long in the tooth at near sixty, Marco put an arm around Nanette’s shoulders.
     “Let’s try the promenade again, Nanette. You really have a feel for the waltz and,
     with a little more practice, we could be the high-scoring couple Saturday.”
    Some of the rigidity left her shoulders and she let Marco lead her onto the dance
     floor, Jezebel trotting behind. Nigel gave a satisfied nod and I was about to approach
     him when his iPhone buzzed. He answered it and I hesitated.
    “Absolutely, luv,” he said after a moment of listening. “Everything’s under control.
     What do you have on—”
    “Spying on the competition, Stacy?”
    The hateful voice made me straighten and turn, furious at being caught in such an
     ignominious position. I might as well have had my ear against a glass pressed to the
     wall. “Just waiting for Nigel to get off the phone, Solange,” I said as airily as
     I could.
    The svelte redhead snorted delicately. Her hair was more a strawberry blond now than
     the flame it had been when she filled in at Graysin Motion, but she looked as fit
     and revoltingly sexy as ever in a mint-colored top that flaunted her six-pack and
     leggings that showed a mile of slim leg. “I hope your ankle’s not going to hold you
     and your partner back,” I said with spurious sympathy.
    “All better.” She rotated it in both directions to demonstrate. “Thanks for asking.”
     She pretended like she thought I was truly concerned. “Mickey’s got a real aptitude
     for ballroom dance,” she went on, “especially for someone who used to think all dancing
     was sinful. Luckily, he’s seen the error of his ways. I’m doing what I can to convert
     him.” She smiled. “How’s it going with the boy wonder? Zane Something, right? I can’t
     have been more than two or three when his show got canceled, so I don’t think I’d
     ever heard of him until the press conference.”
    She was probably three or four years younger than me, but no way had she been a toddler
     when
Hollywood High
went off the air. “Most of the
Blisters
voting demographic were wild for Zane and
Hollywood High
,” I said, “and they’re going to be amazed by his dancing. He’s got the grace and
     charm of Gene Kelly, and the athleticism of Derek Hough.”
    “Really?” Solange’s thin eyebrows soared. “Well, Mickey’s very strong and he can convey
     the emotion of each dance so well it’ll make the women cry. You know tears mean votes
     on this show.”
    “I heard his congregation was in tears when he got caught with that underage prostitute.
     Think they’ll vote for him?”
    Solange lifted her chin to come back with another “my celeb’s better than your celeb”
     zinger when I noticed Nigel had hung up and was coming toward us. “Sorry, Solange,”
     I said. “Gotta go. Nigel!” I intercepted him as he came through the door.
    White teeth glinting, he looked from me to Solange and back again. “Do I smell female
     testosterone in the air? A catfight brewing? Splendid idea! Let’s get it on film.
     Larry!”
    “No, no,” I said, laying a hand on his arm. “Solange and I were just chatting while
     I waited for you.”
    I could see Solange weighing the potential benefits of an on-air spat with me, and
     my eyes urged her to turn Nigel down. “Think how hard it would be for Ariel to cover
     scratch marks on our faces,” I said to Nigel, hoping it would give Solange