Designer Knockoff (34 page)

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Authors: Ellen Byerrum

Tags: #Mystery

BOOK: Designer Knockoff
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“So exactly what religion is your family, Jeffrey?”
“Country club. First Church of Christ, Golf Pro. I barely remember being inside a church of any stripe before that day.”
“Did you buy those doughnuts?”
“I was too shy that first time. I went to prep school, and I didn’t know anybody from public school or the local Catholic school. O‘Leary guided me to the community hall and sat me down with his kids. His daughter, Katie, was a blue-eyed, redhaired doll. I didn’t dare stare at her under the gaze of her dad. His son, Kevin, was a year older than I was, and he looked like a pretty tough guy himself. I figured he was probably going to take a shot at me as soon as he heard I was part of that Bentley clan. But then O’Leary brought over a tray full of doughnuts and milk and set them down. The only thing he said was, ‘This is Jeff. Jeff Holmes.’ ”
“He didn’t tar you with the Bentley brush,” Lacey said. “So O’Leary turned out to be a pretty cool guy. And the other one never kicked your ass?”
“Rappoli ushered the nine-thirty Mass. Still does. And he keeps threatening to straighten me out. Still could.”
“How did you two wind up buddies? And don’t leave out the juicy parts about you and O’Leary’s red-haired daughter.”
He shook his head sheepishly. “Katie. Kathleen Maureen Bernadette O‘Leary. I had a terrible crush on her for years. But I was too afraid of O’Leary to even approach her, and you know how embarrassing my mother can be. Katie’s engaged to a great guy now.”
“So nothing?” Lacey was so disappointed for him.
Men are such fools.
“We’re great friends,” he said, a faint hint of regret in his voice. “I had never been in much of a regular family situation before. Before long I knew all of the O‘Learys, Peg, Mike’s wife, the kids. Actually, I secretly thought of myself as an O’Leary. By eighteen I think I thought of myself as Catholic. It came as a shock a few years ago when Mike pointed out that I was not, in fact, a baptized Catholic.”
“That O’Leary’s big on facts, isn’t he?”
“Very. I decided to study to become a convert. That, of course, nearly caused a nuclear meltdown in my family. You would have thought I was becoming a monk and tossing away my shares of Bentley Enterprises to the church, as well as depriving my mother of grandchildren.”
“I think you ought to tell that to Tyler.” They both laughed.
“Anyway, a retreat seemed the perfect way to get away from all the noise of status, the cacophony of class that seems to be the prevailing mantra in my family.”
“What happened?”
“Mother had palpitations, Hugh had a fit, Aunt Marilyn stopped speaking to me. Aaron was merely snide and condescending; he’s thinks it’s very funny. The upshot is, I dropped the subject, at least in public. And now I’m in the process of converting anyway.”
“Oh, my God. How do they like that?”
“It’s a secret conversion. Just me and God are in on it. And the O’Learys. And now you.”
“Your secret is safe with me.” She realized that sounded foolish, considering her job. “At least that particular secret.” Jeffrey laughed. “I’m the only Catholic left in my family,” she said. “They all lapsed somewhere along the way.”
“Good. Now it’s your turn to talk,” Jeffrey said.
She hesitated for a moment. “If you must know, my family always acted like I was a changeling, the spawn of wayward gypsies. And that the real Lacey Smithsonian was out there somewhere, probably running a cheerleading camp, teaching the little gypsy girls how to shake their pom-poms.”
“I’m sure they appreciate you.”
“Of course. In the way anthropologists appreciate a specimen of an exotic culture. Lucky for me my sister, Cherise, was a cheerleader and has a fabulous boyfriend who is expected to pop the question at any minute, at least according to my mother. And she drives a minivan that no one will ever blow up. Or maybe it’s an SUV; I forget.”
Platters of steaming steak fajitas arrived, and they dug in. “Will you be taking time off until they catch the guy who wired your car? I think you should.”
“No. I can take care of myself.”
Oh, really? Keep telling yourself that.
He looked doubtful. “It’s about the Fairchild thing, isn’t it? And now it’s that Adams woman from the factory. Who do you think did it?”
“The incident of the minivan? I haven’t figured it out.” Was he just trying to weasel out information for his family? She didn’t want to think that, but she couldn’t rule it out.
“I see,” Jeffrey said quietly. He reached for her hand. “You have such small hands.”
“But they create such big problems. Or so I’ve been told,” she said, drawing them back.
“Don’t be afraid of me, Lacey. Maybe I could talk to them,” he suggested.
“And say what? ‘Please don’t blow up Lacey’s car or try to break into her apartment, even if you do think they are aesthetically unattractive’?”
“Someone tried to break into your apartment?” He was definitely alarmed now.
“Only sort of. It’s okay; I sleep with a baseball bat beside me.”
Oh, that sounded good.
She could just imagine what Stella might say:
Sure, shoot yourself in the foot again. Handsome quarterback, there’s the pass, but Smithsonian fumbles, and she’s out of the game.
They agreed to an early night, as she had major plans for the next day, which she declined to share. As Jeffrey turned into the circular drive to drop her off, her heart lurched. She recognized a familiar green Jeep Wrangler in the parking lot, and someone was sitting in the driver’s seat.
Oh
,
this is great timing,
she thought. Jeffrey escorted her to the door and kissed her on the cheek.
“I can protect you,” he said. “I’m pretty good with a baseball bat.”
Lacey imagined Jeffrey and O’Leary with their posse of choirboys coming to her rescue and laughed. “Not tonight, thanks.”
Then he looked her in her eyes and kissed her for real. She didn’t feel a need to stop him. She kissed him back and wondered if they were being observed. He let her go reluctantly. “Good night, then.”
“Sweet dreams, Jeffrey.” She wanted to tell him how genuinely nice, how truly decent he seemed. But she knew that would be the wrong thing to say.
Lacey waited for Jeffrey to drive off. And then she waited in the lobby for the driver of the Jeep to stroll up the front walk. Her heart pounded, heat pulsed through her veins, and chills ran up and down her spine. She’d felt something a little bit like it only a moment ago, when Jeffrey kissed her, but they were two different thrills in terms of velocity. That one warmed her; this one made her dizzy.
Vic had been out in the mile-high sun, obviously not bothering with sunscreen. Some dangerous high wattage lit those green eyes, contrasting with his tan skin. His blue jeans and blue work shirt revealed hard muscles that had been at work, presumably on behalf of the former Mrs. Donovan. He looked so good—and so annoyed. She opened the door for him and she wanted him to say something wonderful, like maybe he had missed her.
“So, Lacey, out having a hot date?” That wasn’t what she had imagined he would say.
“Not exactly. He is sort of a source. Sort of.”
Until that kiss ...
“Do you always kiss your sources? Not that it’s any of my business.”
“It’s not like you and I have an agreement.”
“We don’t?”
“He kissed me, and you would have to pick that moment to arrive. And hello, Vic, long time, no see.” Why was she so irritated? she wondered.
“I said I’d be back.” Warm breath tickled her neck. His voice teased her.
“Right. I vaguely recall that. Pretty long ago. How was Steamboat?”
“The aspen are all gold now. Same old grandeur. But it was lots of work. The house is almost right for the new buyer.”
“That would be Montana, the ex-Mrs. Donovan?” Lacey couldn’t help the slight edge in her voice. She walked in slow motion toward the elevator and Vic followed her. She pushed buttons and they rode up to her apartment. “So you’re all done with, um, whatever you’re done with?”
“I might have to go back to take care of a few more details.”
Details like Montana Donovan, or whatever she’s calling herself these days?
“Then she’ll have time to come up with a few more excuses to keep you there.”
“It’s not like that. You would like her.”
“Only men say stupid things like that, Vic. Besides, I’ve met Montana, remember?”
“You have? I don’t remember. You’re not jealous, are you?”
“I’m not if you’re not. Did you kiss her good-bye?” She unlocked two locks and opened the door for him.
“She kissed me,” he mocked her. “You have nothing to be jealous of. Do I?”
Lacey didn’t think so. But she wasn’t about to tell him that. She merely cocked one eyebrow at him. He swiftly took her in his arms and kissed her till her head swam. He smelled enticingly of spice and exhaustion. She wanted to cling to him, but he broke the moment, entered the apartment, and went directly to the refrigerator. He selected a Dos Equis for himself.
“I see you still have my favorite beer. Do you want one?”
“No, but ice water would be nice.” Lacey shut the door, set her purse down, and collapsed on the sofa waiting for him, slipping off her sandals and curling her feet under her. “Have you talked with Stella?”
That would be Stella and the Girls, the amazing one-woman Dupont Circle news bureau.
Vic had gone to Stella in the past for breaking news on Lacey.
He strolled back, beer in one hand, ice water in the other. “But I did call you first. Your machine is probably flashing. You weren’t around, so we grabbed a pizza, she and Bobby and I. I can’t wait to see the Sunday newspaper and Stella’s masterpiece.” Lacey could just imagine that gabfest. Stella loved nothing so much as an attentive male audience. “Then I decided to come over and see you in person.”
“Okay, what are you so amused about? Talk, Vic.”
“Stella tells me she’s been doing your hair all week, slaving over a hot curling iron for you.”
“Slaving? That witch. It was her idea.”
“Something about turning you into a 1940s screen goddess for some fancy ball. I don’t know what that’s all about, but it came up in the conversation. And I’ve always liked 1940s screen goddesses.”
“Is that all?”
It turned out also that he’d already checked out DeadFed dot com. “It’s trash, but I always read it to make sure you’re not in the headlines. But of course, my hopes were dashed. There she is, Lacey Smithsonian and the Amazing Exploding Minivan. I’m not sure I even understand what that was all about, either, but why the hell can’t you stay out of trouble?”
“Those are the words I’ve been dreaming of hearing.”
He moved next to her and smoothed her hair off her forehead. “I like your hair. It’s nice, sexy. Stella does nice work.”
“Stella is a piece of work.”
He moved in close to her and gazed into her eyes. “So how is your car?”
How is my car? What a sweet talker!
“The Z is at the garage. My mechanic is keeping it locked up for me, boarding it like an old dog at the kennel.”
“You need a new car. And I don’t want you driving that thing till I check it for explosives. Most mechanics don’t know what to look for. But have him make sure your brake lines haven’t been cut, things like that. And if you insist on keeping that old dog, excuse me, beloved vintage classic, you should install an alarm system. I’ll look into it for you.”
“Aye-aye, sir! Any more orders,
mon capitaine?
I haven’t seen you in two months and all you want to do is lecture me.”
“That’s not all I want to do.” He looked at her pointedly. She could feel the heat rise in her face, estrogen pumping, thumping, coursing through her body. He had the most distracting effect on her. He touched her face with his fingers delicately, as if she were made of china, then her hair, then ran his fingers down her neck and drew him to her. He kissed her, sending delightful shock waves running through her. She wanted the moment to linger, there in her living room. He let go.
What is it with this guy?
“Of course, if you could only stay out of trouble we might be able to, um, catch up with each other. Now that I’m back. Like I said I would be.”
“Why do you always assume everything is my fault?”
“Good question. Maybe it’s not your fault; maybe you’re just like a gigantic magnet for trouble.”
“Shut up.” She kissed him hard, willing him to extend the moment. But he pulled away.
“Damn, I’m tired,” he said. “I just drove fourteen hours today. Too tired to do what I would like to do. And too tired to argue.”
“Yeah. We’d probably just wind up in a big fight.” She was disappointed and relieved at the same time.
Vic reached out to set his empty beer bottle down on Mimi’s trunk without looking, which normally doubled as her coffee table. And then he noticed it wasn’t there.

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