Grave Apparel (70 page)

“Yes,
flippant! Just
like
that! Right
now!”
Cassandra flared her nostrils.

“Sorry.”
Lacey
put up her hands in peace.

“There
was
this idiotic Christmas sweater hanging on the
back
of
Felicity’s
chair
when
I
went
past
it,”
Cassandra
re
called.
“I’d
never
seen
anything
like
it. It
was
worse
than all the others. Garish,
tacky,
expensive.
Hideous. I
couldn’t
take
my
eyes
off
it.”

“You
should
have
heard what it did to ‘Jingle
Bells.’
”

“It
was
right there, staring at me!
Like
an insult. A slap in
my
face.
It
was
the
Queen
Mother
of
all
tacky
Christmas
sweaters. I
couldn’t
stop myself. And I—I—”

“You
took it?
You
took
Felicity’s
sweater
yourself
?” Cas sandra nodded, her
eyes
welling up with tears. The sweater may
have
been an
affront
to good taste,
but
it
was
someone
else’s
property.
Lacey
refrained
from
stating
the
obvious:
Felicity
would
certainly kill Cassandra when this came out.
With
her
bare
hands.
“But why?”

“I
don’t
know!
It
was
the strangest impulse. It
was
hanging there
like
a rude gesture. It
was
made of petrochemicals, there
wasn’t
a single natural
fiber
in it, it
served
no useful purpose to the planet, it
was
an
affront
to
everything
I
believe
in. I
wanted
to
destroy
it.”
Cassandra
looked
at her hands.
“I’ve
never
stolen
anything
before in my life. I’m so
ashamed.”

“You
stole the sweater that Felicity ordered specially for the Christmas party so she could amuse
everyone.
Wow,
Cassandra, talk about ruining Christmas.
Way
to
go.”

“I told you I’m not proud of
it,”
the
woman
snapped. “But I realized that someone should
know
because—”

“Because
it
changes
everything,”
Lacey
completed
her
thought.
Things
looked
even
worse
for
Felicity
now,
she
thought. The food writer
finds
her prize sweater missing, the ultimate example of what Cassandra was railing against,
as
sumes Cassandra stole it or
destroyed
it, runs after
her,
finds
her with it, goes berserk, and has a giant candy cane in
her
hands
for
heaven
knows
what
reason,
but
there
were
such

weapons
available
at the
newspaper
Christmas
party.
She beats
Cassandra
over
the
head
with
it
and
leaves
her
lying
in
the
alley
in the prize
sweater,
because it had been
defiled
by Cas
sandra’s
touch. And because it
would
serve
Cassandra right to be caught dead wearing the gaudy Christmas sweater she hated so much. It all
fit
so
neatly.
Cops
would
like
that
theory,
it
was
big and neat and
obvious.
But then who on earth
was
the Santa Dude that Jasmine
saw
in the
alley?
Graybill?
Now
my
head
hurts
too!

“Did you put the sweater on?”
Lacey
needed to clarify that point.

“Are
you
insane?
It
was
all
scratchy
and
unnatural.”
“What about the candy cane?”

“I
didn’t
see a candy cane. I
don’t
even
remember what hap pened in the
alley.
Or who did
it.”
She closed her
eyes.
“Oh, this
is so
awful,
why
can’t
I
remember?!”

“Have
you told the police all this yet?”

“No.”
Cassandra
looked
horrified
at
the
thought.
“Only
you.”

Lacey
realized that if Cassandra took the sweater it turned some of the other theories on their heads. Where did that
leave
Stephen Graybill? If Cassandra had it with
her,
it simply pre sented
anyone
the opportunity to imply the attack
was
all tied
up
in
Sweatergate.
And
Lacey
had
assumed
nothing
in
the
world
would
make
Felicity part with that precious
sweater.
But what if Cassandra had polluted it?
Would
she
leave
it on Cas
sandra’s
body to
make
a point?

And
how
did
I
get
into
this
mess,
caught
between
the
two
people
I
like
least in the
entire
newsroom?

She
picked
up her coat and noticed the
flower
arrangement
next
to the bed.
Two
dozen roses with holly and berries and
tiny
candy
canes,
wrapped
with
a
large
red
ribbon.
It
was
very
pretty,
if a little ironic. She
looked
at the card.
“For
all our to
morrows,
Henderson.”
The arrangement must
have
cost a lot of
money,
but
then,
Lacey
thought, he could
afford
it.
The
Eye
’s
puny
arrangement
was
drooping.

“No
flowers
from the Gangsters of Gaia?” she
asked.

“Oh
no.
We
believe
cutting
flowers
is
a
violation
of
the
plant’s
rights.
But
they
brought
me
all
the
newspapers
so
I
could
catch
up.
They
thought
it
might
jog
my
memory.

Maybe
it
did.”
She
waved
her
hand
at
the
stack
of
newspapers
on
the
bed.

“Doesn’t
cutting
down
a tree to
make
newsprint
to print a
newspaper
violate the
tree’s
rights?”
Lacey
asked.
Cassandra
rolled
her
eyes.
“Just
trying
to
follow
along,
Cassandra.
So
why
didn’t
you call Peter Johnson about the
sweater,
once you re membered it?”

“Mac said you were
working
on this. He said Peter needed to
cover
that
emergency
appropriations bill on the Hill.
That’s
more important than my little
troubles.”

Leave
it to Cassandra,
Lacey
thought, to think an appropri ations bill trumped life and death. Or maybe Mac
was
diverting
Johnson
off
this story?

“So Peter is out of your life and Henderson is in? I’m con
fused,
Cassandra.
It’s
pretty
obvious
that
you
and
Johnson
have,
um,
unexpressed
feelings for each
other.”

“It is not obvious!” The patient suddenly sat up
straight,
then she grabbed her head and sank back
down
in pain, closing her
eyes.
“I
have
...
a history with Henderson, and I think I can help him
keep
his priorities straight, especially
now
that
he’s
taken
that
new
job.
He’s
impressionable, and that lifestyle it of fers, it will tempt him to—to go
over
to the other side. It
would
be wrong of me to let him go. I’m tired
now.
Please
go.”

My
pleasure,
Cassandra.
“Take
care. Call me if you
have
another
memory
breakthrough.”
Lacey
picked
up
her
bag,
checked her cell phone for messages that weren’t there,
and
left.

She
started
walking
down
the
hall,
head
down,
lost
in
thought, and nearly bumped right into Henderson
Wilcox.
As
if Cassandra had summoned him by speaking his name,
the
little
brother
of
Brooke’s
“Senator
Snidely
Whiplash”
ap
peared before
her.
He wore a blue suit and a big smile full
of
relief.

“Ms. Smithsonian?
We’ve
met
briefly.
Henderson
Wilcox.”
He patted his red
power
tie into place with one hand and
ex
tended the
other.
“It’s
wonderful
news,
isn’t?
A suspect being
arrested?
The
stalker
who
wrote
those
terrible
letters?”
Oh
really?
Lacey
let him
have
his moment, Cassandra could
burst
that
bubble
herself.
“We
were all placing bets on whether
you’d
be bagging yet another
killer.
Attempted
killer,
of course.
Now

that
it’s
all
over,
I’m surprised to run into you here. Another in
terview
with Cassandra?”

“Oh, just girl
talk,”
Lacey
said, smiling.

“She told me someone else at the paper had a hand in the as
sailant’s
capture?”

“Can’t
bag ’em
all.”
She smiled
brightly.
Let
him
get
a load
of
Johnson.