Designer Knockoff (30 page)
By this time Marie, the friendly neighborhood psychic, stood majestic in the middle of the room, her black gypsy curls tumbling over a gauzy gown of purples and blues. Bangles decorated her wrists, and a tattooed vine snaked down her right arm. She smiled at Lacey, who was wearing the bodice with her shorts. “Perfect, Lacey. You must protect it with your life,” she said. “There are those who would covet it.” Her pronouncement amused the crowd.
“Yeah, they’ll be pea green with envy,” Stella said.
“It’ll be a dress to die for,” Miguel said, “but if it’s me or the dress, I’ll choose me every time. Now turn around and let me see.” He made a few adjustments in the shoulder line and the back darts. “Be careful; you’re full of pins. And stop wiggling or you’ll look like a dartboard.”
Lacey tried not to let Marie’s words disturb her. Her predictions usually made little or no sense, except when they were about clothing or the weather.
So maybe this one should be heeded?
So maybe this one should be heeded?
Lacey changed, returned the bodice to Miguel, and rejoined the party, which could have been thrown by the Three Stooges. Mac announced that “someone named Vic phoned while you were doing your girly thing. I told him you were busy.”
“Did he leave a message?”
He shrugged. “He said he might catch up with you later, if you’re not too busy.” Mac picked up a chicken leg and took a bite. He resumed a conversation with Damon, who seemed to be angling for a job at
The Eye. Or just developing a new source.
The Eye. Or just developing a new source.
Trujillo dragged her to the tiny kitchen, where he opened the fridge, looking for a beer chaser. “So, who was it, Lacey?”
“Who was what?”
“Don’t play coy, Smithsonian.” He got in close, conspiratorial. “The van. It was meant for you. Who did it?”
Could it be the Bentleys? Belinda was certainly displeased with her, but Hugh had just teased her with a new story that presumably he
wanted
her to write. Was it her talkative anonymous caller, unhappy that Lacey hadn’t done exactly as he wished? How about Van Drizzen or whoever killed Esme?
wanted
her to write. Was it her talkative anonymous caller, unhappy that Lacey hadn’t done exactly as he wished? How about Van Drizzen or whoever killed Esme?
“I don’t know, but my dance card is full. I’m going to need more minivans.”
Once everyone was stuffed with pizza and chicken, and the tequila and even the worm were gone, the party wound down. Mac announced he and Kim were taking their leave and everyone else followed. Everyone was out the door by eleven-thirty. But Stella refused to go home.
“No way, Lacey. You need me.”
“I’ll be fine alone.”
“You’ll be finer with me here. I’ll be here in the morning and we’ll do your hair.” It was hopeless. Stella took the pillows off the couch, pulled out the sofa bed, and made herself comfortable. “Of course, you could put a real bed in that other room, you know.”
“It’s on my list of one hundred most important things to do next.”
Lacey gave up and went to bed. She tossed and turned all night, her dreams full of exploding minivans.
chapter 20
Lacey finally awoke about eight Thursday morning, stumbled toward the shower, and remembered Stella. The stylist was asleep on Lacey’s sofa bed, her red crew cut peeking out from under the baby-blue blanket. Lacey crept past her to start a pot of coffee before she took a shower. At least she didn’t need to go into the salon this morning.
“Morning, Stella,” she said once the coffee was ready. The blanket emitted a groan. “Want some coffee?” Another groan that could have been yea or nay. Lacey figured Stella could help herself.
Lacey poured herself a cup, then stepped out on the balcony to decide what to wear. The sky was gray and gloomy, threatening to rain, which matched her mood. The only good thing was that Vic was not around for one of his special lectures, accompanied with a trip to the range to practice her shooting skills. And the radio said a hurricane would miss Washington after all.
After the previous day’s stress, Lacey decided to be comfortable today. She selected high-waisted black slacks, a light blue sweater, and a short black leather bomber jacket, which Stella had talked her into buying in a weak moment. It wasn’t vintage, but it was a classic look.
I’ll be the bomber today.
I’ll be the bomber today.
After dressing she came out of the bedroom to find Stella opening her eyes over a steamy cup of black coffee. She wore the large T-shirt she had borrowed from Lacey to sleep in. She squinted at Lacey. “Okay, I’m thinking of a French twist today. It’s classic; everyone wore one, from Joan Crawford to Audrey Hepburn. And it’s easy. Where’s my bag?”
Stella’s large black leather bag must have weighed thirty pounds. It was a mobile salon, and Stella hunched over it like a surgeon selecting tools.
Lacey didn’t even argue this morning. Her hair was swept up into a twist with the bangs dipping low on the side. She glanced in the mirror. It was a good look, very uptown, professional, with just a hint of hard edge thrown in. It would go great with the black jacket. Lacey grabbed for her bag, and the new cell phone rang. It was Mac. “Why are you calling me on this thing?” she demanded.
“To see if it works.”
She thanked him and tossed the cell phone back in the bag before saying good-bye to Stella, who was back under the covers, fluffing the pillow.
“Uh, don’t you have to go to work, Stel?” Lacey hesitated.
“No. Not until one today. Go on. What, you don’t trust me here alone?”
“I trust you with my life, Stella. I’d tell you not to let any strange men in, but I know that’s your favorite kind. Just lock up when you leave. And put that match in the door, like I showed you.”
“Got it.” She was asleep again before her head hit the pillow.
Lacey was aching to drive to work in her own car for a change, but with a bomber on the loose, the Z was safer locked up at Asian Engines, and Lacey thought she would be safer on the Metro. She settled into a window seat and tried to empty her mind in that meditative Metro trance that she sometimes managed to achieve. But at the Pentagon station the doors shut and her eyes opened to meet those of a lean man with short cropped hair and a face as spare as a hawk’s. Senator Van Drizzen’s press secretary, Doug Cable, was swaying over her, gripping the overhead bar. She had seen him at the Appropriations Subcommittee hearing, and if she were in any doubt, his staff ID badge was dangling in front of her face. He wore a subtle moss-green glen-plaid suit, white shirt, and yellow tie. Cable was chewing gum, which struck Lacey as odd because he looked like a tough guy, not a gum-chewing kid. She could see his muscles working from his jaw to the veins in his temples. He leaned into her face and chomped harder on his gum.
“Hey, you’re that reporter, right?” She looked up at him blankly. “Ha! Sure you are. Smithsonian, Lacey Smithsonian.” He said it with a sneer. He blew a bubble, then stuffed it back in his mouth. “I’m Cable, Doug Cable. With Senator Van Drizzen.” He had ignored her at the hearing, but he was not ignoring her now. “You work for that rag,
The Eye Street Observer.
What is your problem, Smithsonian?” His voice carried throughout the rush-hour crowd on the subway car. People were staring, unusual behavior on the Metro.
The Eye Street Observer.
What is your problem, Smithsonian?” His voice carried throughout the rush-hour crowd on the subway car. People were staring, unusual behavior on the Metro.
“I don’t have a problem. Not yet.”
“That’s good. Because the senator had nothing to do with Fairchild. And you’re giving him a problem he doesn’t need.” Chomp, chomp. His jaw muscles threatened to jump out of his skin. She wondered if he were an ex-smoker. “Do you read me?” He shouted it.
“Loud and clear,” she answered.
A woman next to her muttered, “Really loud.” Cable popped a bubble at her.
“Just what are you doing messing around in libelous accusations ? Don’t you cover some girly beat? Don’t mess with the big boys.”
His words didn’t bother her, but his voice did.
“Wait a minute,” Lacey said. “You’re the one who called me, trying to blame the whole budget mess on Esme Fairchild. That was you, wasn’t it?”
Cable swallowed his gum. His eyes were angry slits and his mouth a tight line. “You’re sick, you know that? Stay away from my senator, Smithsonian. I’m warning you. Far away.”
A copy of the newspaper was in Lacey’s lap, the editorial boxed on the front page with a picture of Felicity’s still-smoking van. The headline read, “We Will Not Be Intimidated!” She picked it up and snapped it right in Cable’s face. He turned his back on her. He got off at the next stop, Archives, a long walk from the Senate.
What the hell?
Lacey thought,
Did he get on this line just to badger me?
What the hell?
Lacey thought,
Did he get on this line just to badger me?
“Don’t worry, honey; you turned the tables on him,” the woman next to her said. “He’s a real lunatic.”
The run-in with Cable had done nothing to improve her already dreadful mood. And on top of that, Hansen greeted her with a quick photo shoot for Look Number Four, which he tried to make too arty. Her photographer was getting bored, she thought. But what seemed to make everything worse was that her outfit had turned on her, and she didn’t care if the thought was irrational. When Lacey’d gotten dressed, she’d thought her black-slacks-and-blue-sweater outfit was perfectly good, but as soon as she got to the office bad things began to happen to the sweater. It stretched out and hung unevenly. It made her look really fat, she thought, and every time she caught her reflection in the windows of Mac’s office, she seemed to grow to huge proportions. The hem unraveled. It drove her crazy.
My God, did the freshness date expire?
She also managed to spill coffee on the sleeve. She tried to clean the spot off, but merely succeeded in creating a ring around the stain and pilling the fabric. She knew she shouldn’t worry about such a small thing, especially at the newsroom, where high style meant wearing socks that matched. But she knew that because of her column people held her to a higher standard.
Drat!
My God, did the freshness date expire?
She also managed to spill coffee on the sleeve. She tried to clean the spot off, but merely succeeded in creating a ring around the stain and pilling the fabric. She knew she shouldn’t worry about such a small thing, especially at the newsroom, where high style meant wearing socks that matched. But she knew that because of her column people held her to a higher standard.
Drat!
Lacey would never be a slave to the latest styles. She didn’t make that kind of money. Nor did she expect other people to be perfect. But they expected her to be at least presentable, if not downright entertaining. She believed that a woman should be able to put together a decent outfit that would complement her size and shape and offer up clues to her basic personality, or at least as much of it as she took to the office. It wasn’t too much to ask, but today she was rapidly becoming her own fashion victim.
I’m turning into a “Crimes of Fashion” column,
she thought. “
When Good Clothes Go Bad?” “When Angora Attacks?”
Even if it was a great color, the blue sweater was history. It wasn’t even noon, but it was time to go shopping.
I’m turning into a “Crimes of Fashion” column,
she thought. “
When Good Clothes Go Bad?” “When Angora Attacks?”
Even if it was a great color, the blue sweater was history. It wasn’t even noon, but it was time to go shopping.
“I have to get out of here,” Lacey said to no one in particular. She took an early lunch and dashed to Filene’s Basement on Connecticut Avenue. She tried on half a dozen sweaters before she was satisfied. She settled on a fitted yellow sweater with black piping around the sleeves and square neck. Satisfied that she finally met the Smithsonian standard, she felt she could go on with her day.
When she returned to the office her brand-new desk phone rang. “You didn’t hear it from me, but Senator Van Drizzen’s wife is moving back to Arkansas today.” It was Tyler Stone, Esme Fairchild’s Capitol Hill housemate and a staffer for Senator Dashwood. Lacey looked at her new high-tech caller identification screen. It said CALLER UNKNOWN.
That’s a big help.
That’s a big help.
“Where are you calling from?”
“A pay phone. I can’t make this call from the office.”
Or the ubiquitous cell phone.
“Why are you calling me?”
“Why are you calling me?”
“I feel bad. For Esme. I had no idea that she would die. I mean, who did?”
“So Mrs. Van Drizzen is really moving out?”
“The van will be there at three.”
“Why now?”
“It’s all because of that damn scarf that you wrote about. That Bentley scarf that Esme had her eye on? It was the same as the one the senator bought his wife for her birthday three weeks ago. When his wife saw it in the paper, she figured out that he didn’t pick it out it for her all by himself.”
“Hang on, Tyler. I’m looking for something.” Something tickled Lacey’s brain. She grabbed a paper from the Van Drizzen press conference. It was a photo of the loving senator and his wife. She hadn’t noticed it before, but sure enough—it was the same Bentley scarf. Mrs. Van Drizzen had secured it on one shoulder with an American-eagle pin. “I found it. You’re right; it’s right there in black and white. The same scarf.”
“Van Drizzen sent Esme to Bentley’s for it. I guess Esme decided she just had to have one for herself. It made the perfect accessory for my Bentley’s suit that she swiped.” Tyler paused. “I didn’t mean that how it sounds.”
Marcia had told Lacey that Van Drizzen was going to buy Esme something very special. Perhaps that would be a Bentley’s scarf and the good senator intended to pick up the bill?
“Do people on the Hill think he’s involved with Esme’s death?”
“Not really. Esme wasn’t Van Drizzen’s first forbidden intern, and none of the others are dead, right? Lots of people think it’s just the fickle finger of fate shining a light on his sins. His turn, you know?”
“Then Esme wasn’t the only one he was sleeping with right now, was she?”
“There are rumors of some others. But I don’t know any names.”
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