Designer Knockoff (24 page)
“Yeah, that’s me, Lacey Smithsonian, trendsetter. You’ll find out in Sunday’s paper. Wait and see.”
“No way.” Brooke slammed on the brakes like somebody’s mother with an intransigent child. “Do you want to walk home?”
“Okay, okay. Stella’s trying out vintage looks for me to match the dress I’m wearing to the fashion gala next week. This is Look Number One. You can probably call in your vote, if you want. Just dial 1-800-MAKE-A-FOOL-OUT-OF-LACEY-SMITHSONIAN.”
The Acura sped up again. “Well, that explains everything. Was that so hard? So what’s new? Anything I should know about the Fairchild case? I’ve been in court all day; I feel totally out of contact.”
“Read tomorrow’s paper. It might even interest your little coconspirator.”
Brooke pulled her cell phone from her purse. “I’d better call Damon.”
“If you use that thing while you’re driving, I’m exiting this car. I’m serious; I will not be a party to a cell-phone-related accident.” The cell phone wavered in midair. “I mean it, Brooke. Do you know how many people fall to their deaths off communication towers so that selfish people like you can talk on their cell phones in their cars and kill even more people on the highway?”
“Fanatic.” The phone went back in the purse. “But if Damon knows there’s something coming, he can pick up the paper’s first edition and get the story on his Web site before anyone else. Then he can interpret and context it before the story gets spun out of all recognition. And did you know there’s sometimes a huge delay before the information gets posted to the Web?”
“Don’t stress about it; my information might not even make it into the paper. I have no control over copy editors. And Mac.”
“He wouldn’t do that.”
“You never know.” Lacey enjoyed taunting Brooke. “He thinks he runs
The Eye.
Oh, yeah, he does run
The Eye.”
The Eye.
Oh, yeah, he does run
The Eye.”
Brooke maneuvered the Acura deftly onto the can of worms known as the Fourteenth Street Bridge. “Did I tell you that Barton, Barton and Barton is buying a table at the museum gala? You’re going, of course.”
“No, you didn’t. And yes, I am. I think.”
“So you’re doing a vintage look? Wait a minute, you don’t have any vintage evening wear. That I know of. And I would know.”
“I will. Sort of. Maybe. At least there’s a plan.”
“Aha! A pattern from Aunt Mimi’s trunk?” Lacey nodded and Brooke continued. “But I can wear something modern, right?”
“The conceit is that everyone is wearing American black tie. Evening wear by American designers. It can be new, but rumor has it that many women are going to wear vintage, all the rage now. Hadn’t you heard? So—are you bringing a date?” For once she hoped Brooke would bring someone dull who couldn’t care less about Lacey’s job.
Brooke tried not to smile too broadly, but failed. “I thought I would.”
“You’re not bringing Newhouse?”
“We wouldn’t miss it. Who are you bringing?”
“I’m working. So what are you going to wear?”
“I don’t know. What do you think?”
“Make me happy. Don’t wear black, gray, or taupe, or anything Burberry.”
“You know that’s all I have!” Brooke pouted. “You’re telling me I need something new, aren’t you?” Brooke pulled up to a trendy restaurant and martini bar just off the waterfront in Old Town Alexandria and managed with unexpected luck to grab a parking space by the door.
“Drinks? Oh, Brooke, I’m really tired.”
“Are you kidding? We’re not wasting that new—or old, or new-slash-old—look that crazy Stella gave you. That lipstick’s got a lot of voltage. Let’s try it out.”
Settling into a divan with a tall padded back, they ordered martinis and appetizers. But while a couple of men shot subtle looks their way, Lacey knew they would not approach. It was nearly eight o’clock and the men all still wore their suit jackets, their ties tightly knotted, their photo ID cards on little metal chains, courtesy of their various government bureaus, agencies, and departments. And the ones who weren’t Feds were probably Alexandria or Virginia employees—they were only a block or two from the Alexandria Town Hall, the Alexandria court-house, and the Federal District Court. They all looked vaguely the same: pale skin proudly won through endless overtime under fluorescent lighting and pudgy physiques, because nobody but the President had time or made time to work out, unless they were in the military. And to a man they wore tiny glasses: gold wire frames, silver wire frames, black wire frames, and a few brave iconoclasts who held out for tiny horn-rims.
Lacey strongly suspected they would change directly from those crisp blue suits and knotted red ties into their starched and pressed jammies at bedtime, and the ID tags probably didn’t come off at all if they worked for the Department of Homeland Security. As Brooke commented to her over their martinis, they looked as if their pheromones were jammed so hard they squeaked. They wouldn’t approach. You might as well ask them to paint themselves blue and run naked into the Potomac—unless it was a Code Blue day.
Lacey closed her eyes and pictured a different sort of man. The first man who popped into her head was Jeffrey Bentley Holmes, so handsome and perfectly groomed. No ID tags for him. Yet he was troubled—but who wouldn’t be in “the dark heart of the Bentleys”? Then she was seized with the picture of a hard-bodied man who liked blue jeans and black leather jackets and muddy Jeeps. A man with sea-green eyes who preferred action to bureaucracy. A man who seemed to prefer Colorado—or was it Montana?—to Alexandria, Virginia. And her.
“Lacey, it’s Vic. Sorry I missed you.” She played the message again to hear his deep, melodious voice. That was all that was waiting for her when she arrived home with her eye makeup smudged and her lipstick faded. There were no clues or cues or nuances for her to seize on. She reflected that Vic must believe wholeheartedly in leaving no incriminating personal information, like where he was or where he’d been or when he was coming home, and certainly no emotional information, like how he felt about her or his ex, or whether he called to say good-bye forever, or to save Saturday night because he’d be coming home with bells on.
Anonymous informants call me and they just can’t shut up, but Vic? Seven words.
Anonymous informants call me and they just can’t shut up, but Vic? Seven words.
“Damn you, Vic Donovan. What’s up with you?” She said it aloud in her empty living room. She didn’t even have a picture of him, but she remembered every line in his face, his eyes, his buttery low voice. The question of why he called drove her nuts.
As Stella would say, I need a man bad.
One in
particular.
As Stella would say, I need a man bad.
One in
particular.
She washed away the last of Stella’s Look Number One and went straight to bed, knowing that the martini Brooke had insisted on would make six A.M.—and Stella’s Look Number Two—arrive far too soon.
Lacey Smithsonian’s
FASHION BITES
What are you going to do when the Homeland Security alert is Code Orange, the air quality is Code Purple, the Beltway has you seeing red, and you’re feeling blue?
Whatever you do, for heaven’s sake, don’t color coordinate. Whacked-out fashionistas will be running around the District looking like deranged crayons. Holy Code Crayola!
Theoretically, the government alert system is simplicity itself, featuring the primary and secondary colors every first-grader learns: red, orange, yellow, blue, green. So simple, so easy to understand. But ask yourself: Is it, perhaps, too simple? Are these the same people who live to tangle you up in red tape, the people who wrote the grim, gray federal regulations, the people who gave us the tax
code
?
code
?
Why would Washington bureaucrats pick a system that is so bold, so colorful? To judge by most Feds’ clothing, they’ve never heard of the rainbow. The fact is, color frightens most bureaucrats. Wouldn’t they be more likely to create a code that they could understand—a comfortable, neutral color code designed to baffle outsiders? Could it be the publicized code is not the
real
code at all? Yes, the government would have a secret color code. A code based on taupes, beiges, and oatmeals; the colors of a bureaucrat’s soul.
real
code at all? Yes, the government would have a secret color code. A code based on taupes, beiges, and oatmeals; the colors of a bureaucrat’s soul.
We might be told the country is on Code Orange, but the top dogs in Homeland Security might actually be working in Code Gray, Code Umber, Code Puce. Or heaven forbid, Code Mushroom (the cloud, not the soup).
No doubt they silently signal each other via their ties and lapel pins, or the background colors of their shabby photo ID cards. Keep your eyes open for the little signature notes. For the Washington man, keep an eye on the tie. As ugly as it may be, this is where the most information resides in their garb. For all we civilians know, the knot could be a subtle signal. Does a Windsor mean we tied the knot with Great Britain? A four-in-hand an impending alliance with the European Union? A bow tie that we’re secretly in bed with the French? What about the patterns? Regimental stripes: Code Souza. March in formation until further notice. Tiny geometric foulard patterns: Code Microbe. Anthrax spores! Stop breathing now! Psychedelic paisley: Code Groovy. All civilians are advised to party down and skip naked through the Reflecting Pool.
With the Washington woman, look to the accessories. If she’s already on the run with her grubby but functional jogging shoes, it could be Code Dusty Tan. Run away immediately! Sporting a green and brown backpack instead of an attache: Code Camouflage. Evacuate and take shelter in Rock Creek Park. And if you see women streaming out of congressional office buildings wearing “escape hoods” accessorized with their Burberry scarves, you can be sure that the alert status is now Code Mustard (the gas, not the spice).
Haven’t heard of escape hoods? Snazzy over-the-head garments featuring a clear window over the face. They’re not pretty, but they give the wearer enough air to evacuate the building in the event of a biological incident, and Congress has a boatload of them. Where’s yours?
Meanwhile the rest of us are bungling around somewhere in Code Yellow, blissfully ignorant of the threats revealed by the super-secret codes that lurk around us. My advice: Hold on to your optimism, wear what you please in colors you like, whether azure or emerald, and to counter the blues, although I don’t recommend it for courtroom attire: Think Pink.
chapter 16
Lacey’s little black dress from 1942 seemed demure, but it had a saucy scarlet kick pleat and matching piping and buttons, which of course matched her bright red 1942 lips. She tucked a red hankie in the pocket and secured it with her jeweled cardinal pin, one of her favorites. Tuesday morning’s approximation of a Forties style, courtesy of Stella, parted her hair in the middle with the sides rolled up and caught in a clip in the back; the rest of it curled into a pageboy. Lacey successfully fought the planned addition of a bow. “I’m not going anywhere as June Allyson,” she told Stella, who was wearing black kohl ringed around her eyes for that dramatic I’ve-been-up-all-night-doing-God-knows-what look. In Stella’s case, it might not be just a look.
“Fine. But it would complete the look and it would be more authentic. And what have you got against June Allyson? I’ve got a great photo of this look right here,
LIFE
magazine, 1949.”
LIFE
magazine, 1949.”
“It’s way too
Little Women.
And I am no ingenue. I am a woman, a dangerous woman.”
Little Women.
And I am no ingenue. I am a woman, a dangerous woman.”
“You need a man, Lacey. You blew off the last one, Mr. Curly Lashes Vic Donovan. And he was so cute. Have I mentioned that before? Have you heard from him?”
Lacey bit her scarlet lips.
Lacey’s voice mail was flashing furiously when she finally made it into the newsroom. Hansen was waiting for her, sitting at her desk, sipping a cup of black coffee and perusing the LifeStyle section of
The Eye Street Observer.
He was on the inside jump of Lacey’s Gloria and Esme story, “Separated by Sixty Years, the Same Old Story: Ambitious, Young, and Gone.” The Tremains’ photos of Gloria joined with the Esme photos peered out at the reading world. Hansen glanced up at Lacey, taking in her vintage Look Number Two.
The Eye Street Observer.
He was on the inside jump of Lacey’s Gloria and Esme story, “Separated by Sixty Years, the Same Old Story: Ambitious, Young, and Gone.” The Tremains’ photos of Gloria joined with the Esme photos peered out at the reading world. Hansen glanced up at Lacey, taking in her vintage Look Number Two.
“So, are you, like, channeling her? This Gloria Adams of yours?”
“That’s a pretty gruesome thought. But I’d like to channel some black coffee.”
“You think she bought the farm? I mean the Adams chick; we know about Esme.”
“Yeah, I think she did. And she wasn’t a farm girl.”
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