Designer Knockoff (41 page)
The security was ample yet subtle. Guests passed through metal detectors and guards at the entrance. Numerous men and some women wore small earpieces and identifying security pins on their lapels in addition to their sober evening dress. Vic was just one of dozens. He was across the Great Hall and did not see Lacey, but she saw him flash his killer smile at a young woman who was blatantly flirting with him. Lacey’s heart skipped a beat, but she told herself he was just doing his job and she had to do hers—observe the clothes and the crowd, and watch for an opening to confront Hugh.
She located
The Eye’s
table. Lacey found that she was seated between Trujillo—
how did he get an invitation?—
and Mac. It was apparent that Claudia Darnell wielded enough influence to land a table inside the eight Corinthian columns, which framed a small fountain at the center of the enormous Great Hall. Claudia knew where all the skeletons of scandal lay buried, including her own. She was always accorded special treatment, even if her newspaper wasn’t.
The Eye’s
table. Lacey found that she was seated between Trujillo—
how did he get an invitation?—
and Mac. It was apparent that Claudia Darnell wielded enough influence to land a table inside the eight Corinthian columns, which framed a small fountain at the center of the enormous Great Hall. Claudia knew where all the skeletons of scandal lay buried, including her own. She was always accorded special treatment, even if her newspaper wasn’t.
Between most of the numerous smaller Doric columns that lined the perimeter of the Great Hall were mannequins dressed in evening gowns and placed on marble pedestals. There were designs from all the important American couture houses. The Three Bs, Bentley, Blass, and Beene, were there in strength, but Lacey also spotted stunning examples of Bonnie Cashin, Victor Costa, and more current designers like Ralph Lauren, Donna Karan, Tommy Hilfiger, Badgely Mishka, and Isaac Mizrahi. Classic Hollywood costume designers were well represented; she spotted Edith Head, Irene, Adrian, and Orry-Kelly, and there were others she would have to read her program to recognize.
It was as if the court of Louis XIV had been reincarnated in the mannequins in this room. It was the definition of conspicuous consumption, and Lacey found herself dazzled by all the eye candy. The Gloria Adams dress she wore could have taken its place among the treasured gowns. As the string quartet played, the room pulsed to life. Predictably, most of the crowd was wearing black, the men uniformly clad in tuxedos, the women glittering with diamonds. Lovely though they were, they blended into each other, though there were a few brave women offering bright spots of color.
Tony Trujillo materialized beside her. “Smithsonian’s wearing glad rags tonight. I didn’t think you could top the red suit. But you’ve done it.”
Lacey’s attention was momentarily caught by Penelope Mandrake, the Bentleys’ museum director, who, though dressed in a stretchy black evening gown and wearing crystal chandelier earrings, still clung to a clipboard. She slid past Lacey without a glance, checking off names.
“No one knows how to relax in this town,” Trujillo said. “Except me.” He lifted a glass of champagne off a waiter’s tray. The dapper reporter wore his tuxedo with a black shirt and a silver and black bolo with a large turquoise in the knot. He noticed her staring at it. “Turquoise goes with anything where I come from.” He grinned and moved off in the direction of a pretty young blonde.
Lacey went in search of Annette Tremain and her mother, Willie, but she didn’t have to look very hard. Drawn to the small circle of photographers and television lights surrounding the newly made-over mother and daughter, Lacey veered in for a closer look. Willie, in a lilac crepe dress sporting a V neck, simple lines, and cape sleeves that floated over her chubby arms, looked every inch the prosperous Virginia matron. Her makeup was subtle but glamorous and, as promised, the gray had been washed away, taking a good fifteen years with it. Willie looked pleasantly bemused.
But for Lacey, the big news was Annette Tremain, who simply blossomed under the guidance of a clever hairstylist, an expert makeup artist, and the genius of a Bentley evening gown. When Lacey first met Annette, she had looked positively anemic. Now her green eyes sparkled with the knowledge that she was the center of attention, perhaps for the first time in her life. Annette’s newly auburn hair was tamed in a chic updo caught with sparkling gems. Aaron Bentley himself had selected her dress, a simple pink satin sheath with thin straps and a low neckline. The dress would make a really thin woman look like a plucked chicken, but it showed off Annette’s shapely arms and ample décolletage.
“Lacey!” Annette ran over to her and gave her a quick hug. The dress seemed to have unleashed the effusive Southern belle in her. “Thank you. I owe this all to you.” News cameras leaned in and whirred as she spoke.
“There is no need. Bentley’s did all the heavy lifting. And you look wonderful, really wonderful.”
“But it never would have happened without your story on Gloria, as sad as it was. I shouldn’t say it, but at this moment I am in heaven.” Annette sighed happily.
And I’m not going to ruin it for you,
Lacey promised silently. She wondered what Annette would think if she knew what Lacey had learned about Gloria’s last day.
Would she be so grateful to the Bentleys then?
Lacey promised silently. She wondered what Annette would think if she knew what Lacey had learned about Gloria’s last day.
Would she be so grateful to the Bentleys then?
“And, oh, look at you,” the new Annette continued. “That is the most incredible dress. I’ve never seen anything like it. And that color is heavenly.” Annette’s eyes and mouth suddenly went as wide as two cups and a saucer. “That’s morning-glory blue, isn’t it? Oh, my God, that dress—it’s Great-aunt Gloria’s! It was her color. She wrote about it in her letters. Lacey, how on earth did you do that?”
“Someday I’ll tell you about it, but now I think your public is calling.”
A photographer was trying to get another shot of Annette and her mother. They happily complied. Lacey moved back to
The Eye’s
table to jot down a few notes. She had the table to herself; everyone was milling around, admiring one another’s finery.
The Eye’s
table to jot down a few notes. She had the table to herself; everyone was milling around, admiring one another’s finery.
“May I join you?” It was Gary Braddock, the Undertaker, exquisitely turned out in a shawl-collar tuxedo that looked as natural on him as blue jeans did on Vic. He could have stepped out of a glossy magazine ad.
This is a man who owns tuxedos, not a man who rents.
This is a man who owns tuxedos, not a man who rents.
“Agent Braddock. You peacock, you. I take it you’re working tonight?” Lacey asked. “Or perhaps you’re a supporter of the new museum?”
“Maybe I just like looking at beautiful women in beautiful gowns.”
“Strange words from an FBI agent.”
“I’m sure there’s a story there,” he said, nodding his head at her gown.
“The same story. This is a Gloria Adams design.”
“I hope you are right about that silk you gave me. I try as often as possible to avoid looking like a fool.”
“Don’t be silly. I’m sure you had it checked out.” He smiled and conceded a tiny nod. “Thank you, Agent Braddock. You are a doer of good deeds.”
He laughed. “Now please stay out of trouble.”
She rolled her eyes, exasperated. “You’ve been talking to Vic again, haven’t you?”
“You have a history, Ms. Smithsonian.” He leaned close. “Off the record, though, I helped interrogate Razor Boy last spring. You do nice work with scissors.” He smiled and sauntered off.
Just once I stab a killer and they never forget
, Lacey thought.
, Lacey thought.
Claudia Darnell waved to Lacey and moved gracefully to
The Eye’s
table. The celebrated publisher of
The Eye Street
Observer
wore a one-shouldered ivory gown that played up her golden skin and her still-drop-dead-gorgeous-at-fifty-something figure. Dangling blue topaz-and-diamond earrings brought out the aquamarine of her eyes and caught the light as she tossed her head. Her platinum pageboy was pulled up in a chic chignon.
The Eye’s
table. The celebrated publisher of
The Eye Street
Observer
wore a one-shouldered ivory gown that played up her golden skin and her still-drop-dead-gorgeous-at-fifty-something figure. Dangling blue topaz-and-diamond earrings brought out the aquamarine of her eyes and caught the light as she tossed her head. Her platinum pageboy was pulled up in a chic chignon.
“I gather from our coverage that you’re caught up in another little drama. Exploding minivans in front of the office. Make sure you’re careful—explosions are good for circulation but hazardous to reporters.” Her smile revealed pretty white teeth. “By the way, that’s a wonderful dress you’re wearing. I don’t recognize the designer.”
“She’s practically unknown.”
Only one person needs to recognize it.
Only one person needs to recognize it.
“Perhaps
The Eye
can shine a light on her talents. We’ll talk later.” With that, Claudia joined a distinguished gray-haired gentleman that Lacey recognized as a recently divorced senator.
The Eye
can shine a light on her talents. We’ll talk later.” With that, Claudia joined a distinguished gray-haired gentleman that Lacey recognized as a recently divorced senator.
Mac,
The Eye’s
resident fashion disaster and connoisseur of old corduroy jackets, showed up wearing a tuxedo and looking very distinguished indeed, much to Lacey’s surprise. His wife, Kim, wore a black gown that played up her shapely petite figure. Her thick black Asian hair fell in a high ponytail that shimmered with well-placed glittering beads.
The Eye’s
resident fashion disaster and connoisseur of old corduroy jackets, showed up wearing a tuxedo and looking very distinguished indeed, much to Lacey’s surprise. His wife, Kim, wore a black gown that played up her shapely petite figure. Her thick black Asian hair fell in a high ponytail that shimmered with well-placed glittering beads.
“Evening, Lacey. No explosions tonight?”
“Don’t tease her, Mac,” Kim said, and flashed her an apologetic smile. They moved on to schmooze with the paper’s executives.
Marilyn Bentley came into focus. She was wearing a long-sleeved white gown with silver beading to show off her snowy mane. She took one look at Lacey and stopped cold. “Where did you find that dress?” she asked, trembling.
“I had it made. Do you like it?”
“Oh, dear, my head.” Marilyn touched her temple, then moved quickly away.
Someone tapped Lacey on the shoulder. She half expected to see one of the Bentleys, and was surprised to see Brooke Barton, Esquire, a vision in vintage, and Technicolor at that. The young attorney wore a strapless emerald-and-pale green ball gown from the Fifties with a nipped-in waist and a bustled bow catching up the back of the skirt. Her blond hair cascaded down her back in loose curls. Brooke looked like a mermaid who had shucked her fish tail and gone to Prince Charming’s ball. Next to her, firmly in tow, was Damon Newhouse in a black suit with a black shirt and his serious glasses—and a goofy grin every time he looked at Brooke.
“I’m so proud of you, Brooke!” Lacey said. “Where on earth did you get that fabulous dress?”
“You told me I couldn’t wear black, and I didn’t have time to go shopping. This was Grandmummy’s. Can you believe it? Mother had it boxed away in her disaster of a walk-in closet. It fits me perfectly—well, with a little help from a merry widow,” Brooke said, referring to the restrictive undergarment she was poured into.
“It’s gorgeous.”
“You’re not so bad yourself.”
“What did your mother think of you wearing your grandma’s dress?”
“Oh, she got all teary-eyed and she went on and on about her mother and Grace Kelly and how no one really looks like that anymore. But I do, of course. That’s what she said, and then the tears started all over again.”
Brooke did a movie-star spin to make the skirt fly, and several attractive men looked her way.
Never underestimate the power of the dynamite dress,
Lacey thought.
Never underestimate the power of the dynamite dress,
Lacey thought.
A photographer asked them to smile while he snapped away. Behind him was Aaron Bentley. Cordelia Westgate was nowhere in sight. “Lovely. Take another,” Aaron instructed the man. “Good evening, ladies.” He moved closer to Lacey, creating an intimacy she did not care for. “Lacey Smithsonian, intriguing as always. Now, I would say that spectacular dress you are wearing is vintage, but to my eye the fabric looks quite new, and in such a lovely color. But it looks like it could be one of Dad’s early designs. You look quite beautiful tonight.”
She didn’t know what to say and she didn’t know what he was up to. “Thank you.”
“I mean it; you look fabulous and so different in this crowd of baa-baa black sheep. Washington fashion is an utter snore, my dear.” Aaron smiled at her and took her elbow, steering her away from Brooke and Damon. “But not you, Lacey. Look, you and I have gotten off on entirely the wrong foot. I think we should start over.” He picked up a flute of champagne from a waiter carrying a silver tray. The waiter turned out to be Stella, who winked at her behind Aaron’s back. He offered the glass to Lacey, but she refused. “Nothing for me, thanks.”
Stella whispered, “Sparkling apple cider on the left, miss.” Lacey took the one she indicated. Stella winked again, then momentarily disappeared behind one of the mannequins, set down her tray of drinks on the platform, and took out her tiny camera. She crept close to Lacey and Aaron and snapped several shots. Aaron seemed not to notice, and Lacey tried to keep a pleasant look on her face. She willed herself not to react to Stella’s antics, but she noticed a look of disapproval from several ball-goers. A waiter taking pictures of the guests violated some invisible class barrier.
“You mean you don’t mind the articles that I’ve written?” Lacey asked.
He surprised her by laughing. “Hell, yes, I mind your articles. But I would rather have you with us than against us. Come on; Dad wants to talk to you.”
“Oh, I’m sure I will see him sooner or later.”
From out of a sea of black-clad revelers, Miguel popped up in the background, a yellow rose pinned to his starched white collar. As he hefted his silver tray of hors d’oeuvres with one hand and proffered napkins with the other, he raised one eyebrow in acknowledgment of her. Lacey felt that she passed the test for his approval. He was more proficient with his tray than Stella, and soon he melted from her sight.
“Please. I promise you it will be painless,” Aaron said, with a gleam in his eye.
“Where is Hugh?”
“Upstairs at the private reception.” Lacey felt her eyebrows arch in a question. Aaron shrugged. “We’ve taken the pension commissioner’s suite for a private retreat out of the hustle and bustle. Dad has a lot of energy—hell, more than me—but he is in his eighties. I know he’ll be eager to see you in that fabulous gown, though.”
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