Grave Apparel (35 page)

Lacey
nodded.
“Another
reason to
leave
soon.”

“That poor
woman’s
been through a lot.
Don’t
make
it
any
worse.”
The nurse marched silently
away
in her white clogs.

Lacey
entered the room and
unbuttoned
her
jacket,
but
she
didn’t
take
it
off.
She
didn’t
plan on staying long. She set her purse
down
on a chair and
checked
her
watch.
Maybe Cassan dra
would
order her
off
The
Eye
’s
investigation.
Maybe
she’d
refuse to talk to
anyone
but
Peter Johnson. Maybe
Lacey
would
be out of here in mere moments. She smiled for the
first
time since
Mac’s
order to go see the
woman.

The room
was
a double
but
Cassandra
was
alone, her bed positioned
next
to the
window.
Nobody looks their best in a hospital bed and Cassandra
Wentworth
was
no
exception.
Of course,
Lacey
thought, she may
never
have
seen Cassandra at her best.

As small as she
was,
Cassandra seemed
even
smaller in the
large
bed in a
faded
pink and white floral hospital
gown.
She
never
wore
makeup,
it
was against
some
obscure subsection
of
her
union
rules,
but
she
usually
looked
ruddy
and
healthy
with
her
sunburned
face
and pink windchapped cheeks from all that ecopedaling.

Today,
however,
Cassandra
was
ashen.
Purple
bruises
colored
the
right
side
of
her
face.
Straight
mousebrown
hair
streamed
out
from
beneath
a
large
white
bandage
on
her
head
and
lay
lank
against
the
pillow.
Something
liquid
dripped
through
an
IV
into
Cassandra’s
arm.
She
looked
like
she
was
asleep.
Lacey
was
will
ing
to
wake
her
up,
just
to
get
this
over
with.

“Hello,
Cassandra.”

Cassandra opened her
eyes
slowly,
as if
they
were weighted
down
with sandbags. “I’m
cold.”

“Nice to see you
too.”
Lacey
pulled the
blanket
up around
Cassandra’s
shoulders.

“That’s
better,”
she
croaked.
“Water.”

Not
please
get me the
water.
Lacey
handed the
invalid
a blue plastic glass with a
straw
from a rolling tray near the bed. She
checked
her
watch
again.
Cassandra
slurped
through
the
straw
and coughed.

“They
put some kind of tube
down
my throat. It hurts. And God
knows
what
it’s
made of. Probably
offgassing
carcino gens straight into my
bloodstream.”

“No doubt. Mac said you
wanted
to see
me.”
Lacey
stood by the bed. There
was
no place to sit and still maintain
eye
contact.

“What happened to me?”
“You
don’t
remember?”

Cassandra handed the drink back to
Lacey,
who dutifully set it on the stand.

“I
don’t
remember
anything
from
Friday.
It
was
Friday, right? Mac sai
d.
.
.”
Cassandra seemed reluctant to
finish
the thought. “He said you
saved
my life. Another coup for
you,
Smithsonian.”
She spat the
words
as if
they burned
her tongue. “Gee,
you’re
welcome. And that
was
an
exaggeration.
You
would
have
pulled through without
me.”

“No. The doctor said I
was
lucky.
I could
have
died.”
They
shared an uncomfortable silence before
Lacey
spoke.

“Well,
I’m glad you
didn’t
die,
even
if
you’re
not. What do you
know
about Friday?”

Cassandra
looked
away.
“Someone
attacked
me
and
you
found me shortly
afterward.
Your
timing is impeccable, to say the least.
That’s
all I
know.
Someone
threw
my
newspaper
away
before I could read it. Probably
didn’t
even
recycle
it. Can you imagine
anything
so stupid? I
work
for a
newspaper,
damn it! I
want
to read the
paper.”
She sighed deeply at the injustice.
“Tell
me
what
happened.”
Again,
no
please.

“It
wasn’t
me who
saved
you. I just called nineoneone. It
was
really the kid, the little
shepherd.”
Lacey
described
how
she met the child in the
alley
who witnessed the attack. “He
picked
up your phone, hit the last number dialed. I
won
that particular
lottery.”

“You’ll
still get all the damn
credit,”
Cassandra complained. “No
thanks.”
Despite
Cassandra’s
situation,
Lacey
had an
urge
to pour the
water
jug
over
her.
Only the thought of that tough nurse stopped
her.

“The police
asked
me about a
sweater.
What sweater?”

“Apparently
after the guy hit you on the head, he dressed you in a
sweater.”

Cassandra
tried
to
digest
this
odd
fact.
“Why?
Did
he
think
I
was
cold and going into shock? I
don’t
get
it.”
She rustled the
covers.

“Me
neither.
Pretty solicitous for an
assailant,”
Lacey
said.
“And
it
was
an unusual
sweater.”

“You’re
giving
me a headache, Smithsonian.
Don’t
talk in
riddles.
Why would this sweater be
so important?”

“It was a Christmas
sweater,
Cassandra, and not just
any
Christmas
sweater.”
Lacey
sighed. “It
was
flashing little Christ mas lights and playing ‘Jingle
Bells.’
”

“Oh my
God.”
Shock and puzzlement
registered
on Cassan
dra’s
face.
She
fell
back
against
the
pillow.
“Because
of
what
I wrote? Someone did this because of that?
I’ve
written really important things on vital
worldshaking
issues. But the sweater thing is what struck a
nerve?
What kind of crazy
world
is this?” This
was
not the time,
Lacey
thought, to inform Cassandra that the sweater belonged to her
archenemy,
Felicity Pickles.
Lacey
told herself she
was
not going to get back into the mid
dle
of
this
feud.
“Who
knows
why?
I’m
not
supposed
to
tire
you
out.
I’d
better go.
Your
nurse threatened me with bodily harm.

She looks pretty
mean.”

Cassandra
smiled
for
the
first
time.
“It’s
nice
to
have
friends.”
Lacey
assumed she meant the mean nurse, not
Lacey.
She
didn’t
thank
Lacey
for coming.
Lacey
guessed that might be too much to hope
for.
Thanking someone might wear Cas sandra out. The incident in the
alley,
as
regrettable
as it
was,
and
Lacey’s
small role in
saving
her life, still
didn’t
make
them friends.

“If there
isn’t
anything
else,”
Lacey
moved toward
the
door.
“Get
well.”
She
picked
up her purse and turned to go.

“Smithsonian.
Wait.”
Lacey
heard a big groan and Cassan dra struggled rather dramatically to lift her head.

Lacey
turned back.
“Yes?”

“I
want
you to
find
out who did this to
me.”
“Me?
Didn’t
Peter Johnson talk to you?”

“Peter?”
Cassandra’s
face
lit up
momentarily.
“No. What did he say?”

“He
expressed
an interest in doing just that.
He’s
an
experi
enced Capitol Hill
reporter,
you
know.”
A reporter who
couldn’t
find
his
own
hind
end
with
both
hands
and
a
map,
Lacey
thought,
but
she
didn’t
say that.
Johnson
wanted
to
throw
him
self in
the middle
of this?
Let him
knock
himself
out.

Cassandra took her time,
but
she managed to sit up. “But you
have
a talent for—for—this kind of
thing.”

Do
I
have
a
“kick
me”
sign
on
my
back?
“Cassandra, the po lice are looking into it. And Johnson—”

“I
want
you to
do—whatever
it is you
do.”
Lacey
groaned.
“You
don’t
really understand—” “Mac said you
would.”

He
did,
did
he?
“I can only ask questions, Cassandra.
You
know
that. If I come up with a question and someone to ask,
I’ll
ask it. I
promise.”

“Very
well.”
Cassandra
closed
her
eyes
and
sank
back
against the pillows. “I’m glad
that’s
settled. Where will
you
start?”