Free Dead Man Waltzing by Ella Barrick Page B

“ballroom dancing is becoming a much more popular social activity. The numbers of dancers have grown a lot in the last five years.” I bent to pick up a stainless-steel water bottle one of the women had left. “If Ingelido’s methods help—”
    Vitaly, facing the door, drew in his breath with a hiss. “Speaking of the devils—”
    I spun around to see Marco Ingelido on the threshold, surveying the ballroom with an expression that hovered between appreciative and assessing. In his early sixties, he was beginning to put on weight around his middle, but was still a good-looking man, with thick, dark brows over deep-set eyes and an aquiline nose. He’d been balding for years and had finally shaved his head, telling people that if it was good enough for Kojak, it was good enough for him. He’d been moderately successful as a professional ballroom dancer but gave up competing five or six years back, shortly after I started winning, to concentrate on expanding his business.
    “I heard you two partnered up,” he said, his gaze going from Vitaly to me. “Anya dump you, Voloshin?”
    Vitaly bristled. “I am moved to Baltimore and Anya is not wishing to leave Russia,” he said.
    “And of course we all know what happened to your partner, Stacy,” Ingelido said. “I don’t think I’ve seen you since Rafe died. Didn’t I hear something about you being arrested for his murder?” Malice gleamed in his dark eyes.
    I chose to ignore his question. “Can I help you with something, Marco?” I asked, convinced his showing up like this was not a coincidence. Not after last night.
    “You can give me what you found last night,” he said, his voice flat. “At Corinne Blakely’s.”
    “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
    Ingelido smiled coldly. “My son-in-law is a cop. He ran your license plate for me.”
    Oops. “I saw you break into Corinne’s house,” I said. Two could play the intimidation game.
    “Your word against mine.”
    “Hm, I think your credit card says otherwise.”
    He thinned his lips, clearly wishing he’d taken the trouble to retrieve the snapped credit card. “I didn’t come here to quarrel with you. I can’t imagine what Corinne had on you—you’re so young—but I know you were after her manuscript. I want it. Or”—he held out a placatory hand—“I want your assurance that it’s been destroyed.”
    “What is Corinne having on you?” Vitaly asked, eyes bright with curiosity.
    Ingelido hesitated, then finally said with an air of great honesty, “We were lovers. I was in my late thirties. Corinne was . . . older. I was between wives, so it’s only . . . embarrassing. I’d just as soon not have the affair publicized. We were discreet at the time. I don’t know why she decided to go public with it now.” His voice was a growl of frustration.
    “How did you know she was going to write about you?” I asked.
    “She told me!” He paced like a trapped tiger: three steps away, three steps back. “I had the impression she was giving everyone she was writing about ‘fair warning.’ That’s what she called it when she told me.”
    “I didn’t find the manuscript,” I said, feeling a twinge of sympathy for Ingelido. “And her housekeeper said she never wrote it, that she only had an outline.”
    Ingelido’s chest expanded as he took a deep breath and held it. He blew it out. “That’s that, then.” His shoulders sagged with relief. I debated telling him what I’d learned from Angela Rush, but before I could say anything, he said, “This is a nice little studio you’ve got here. If you signed on with Take the Lead, we could turn it into a profitable enterprise. My franchisees are seeing a twelve percent return on their investment in the first year and up to thirty percent in the second year.”
    “I’m perfectly happy with my income now,” I said.
    His smile said he knew I was lying. “If you change your mind . . .”
    “She won’t changing her