Dead on the Dance Floor by Heather Graham

light.
    Shannon hesitated. “Yes.”
    Sam went dancing by, practicing a Viennese waltz on his own. “Hey,” he teased Jane. “You’ve already got the one brother.”
    Jane gave him a serious glare. “Yeah, and I also have nasty old Mr. Clinton, ninety-eight, and decaying with each move we make.” She looked at Shannon. “I thought you weren’t going to take on any new students.”
    â€œI wasn’t. But you know how it goes.”
    â€œYou’re the manager,” Jane reminded her. “You don’t have to keep him.”
    â€œI know, but that forty-five-minute investment of time felt like ten hours. The guy is a challenge I don’t think I can refuse. Hey,” she added quickly, teasingly, “careful—your old-timer just walked in.”
    Jane glanced at her white-haired, smiling student.
    Ben had already walked forward to shake his hand. That was studio policy—all employees greeted all students when not otherwise occupied. Courtesy and charm to all students, regardless of sex, age, color, creed or ability.
    They were a regular United Nations.
    And more. Being in South Florida, gateway to Latin America, they were also a very huggy bunch. People hugged hello and hugged goodbye. Cheek kissing went on continually. It was nice; it was warm, and it was normal behavior for most people who had grown up here.
    Mr. Clinton was actually a dear. They all kissed and hugged him hello all the time. He wasn’t really decaying, and he wasn’t nasty. He was just a little hard-of-hearing, so it sounded as if he was yelling sometimes.
    Jane sighed. “Yep, here’s my old-timer.”
    â€œJane, he brings you gourmet coffee,” Shannon reminded her.
    â€œHe’s a sweetie, all right.”
    Jane stared at her. She didn’t say anything more. They both knew what she was thinking.
    Sure, the old guy was a sweetie. He just wasn’t Quinn O’Casey.
    Jane forced a smile.
    â€œYou are the boss,” she murmured lightly, and moved away. “Mr. Clinton, how good to see you. What did you say you wanted to do today. A samba? You’re sure you’re up to it?”
    â€œYou bet, Janie,” he assured her with a broad grin. “I got the best pacemaker ever made helping this old ticker. Let’s get some action going.”
    Watching them, Shannon smiled. No, Mr. Clinton wasn’t a Quinn O’Casey, but then again…
    Just what did Quinn expect to get from the studio?
    Suddenly, for no reason that she could explain, she felt a shiver trickle down her spine.

CHAPTER 4
    I n the afternoon, the beach wasn’t so bad, Quinn thought. It was slower. Weekends, it was crazy. If he suddenly heard there had been a run of cab drivers committing suicide on a Friday or Saturday night at the beach, it wouldn’t be shocking in the least. Traffic sometimes snarled so badly that a lifetime could pass before a vehicle made it down a block.
    But in the afternoon…
    Though they were moving into fall, temperatures were still high, but there was a nice breeze coming off the ocean, making the air almost cool. Walking from the studio, which sat between Alton Road and Washington, he passed some of the old Deco buildings and houses that had undergone little or no restoration, appreciating their charm. There were also a number of small businesses, including a coffeehouse that wasn’t part of a big chain, a pretty little flower shop, some duplexes, small apartment houses and a few single dwellings. The beach itself was barely three blocks away, and he was tempted to take a quick stroll on the boardwalk and get a real feel for the area.
    The stretch of sand facing the bay was dotted with sun worshipers. A volleyball game was going on, and down a bit, a mother was helping two toddlers build a sand castle. The little girl wore a white eyelet cap, protecting her delicate skin, while just a few feet away, a young couple, both bronzed and