Designer Knockoff (38 page)
“And Belinda Bentley Holmes?”
“A selfish child. But just a child. After the wedding I never saw her again.” Dorrie, lost in thought, mindlessly munched on a cookie. Lacey fingered the beautiful embroidered material that lay on the table. It was heavenly—too bad it had such a shady past. Then she remembered that Hugh had told her that the First Lady would be wearing vintage silk that had been in the vaults for decades. She retrieved her bag and the article,
The Post’s
exclusive.
The Post’s
exclusive.
“Dorrie, I have a terrible feeling about that silk,” she said as she showed Dorrie the paper.
Dorrie took a magnifying glass out of the pocket of her oversize blue sweater and examined the newspaper’s sketch. “Very ladylike.”
“I think you’d better read it.”
The old woman traced the words with her index finger until she was finished. “It must be the same material. Oh, my Lord. I don’t think the First Lady would want to wear it if she knew where that silk came from.” Lacey was silent.
Dorrie took a pair of scissors and snipped off a piece of silk about six inches wide, enough to show the entire embroidered pattern. Then she folded the rest of it carefully and gave the larger section to Lacey. “You take it. I’ll keep this piece for my memories.”
“Oh, Dorrie, I don’t know. What do you think I should do with it?”
“You’re young and smart like Mimi; you’ll think of something. But somebody should tell the President’s wife that there’s blood on this silk.”
Lacey wasn’t sure how she could possibly make that happen. She was only sure that the afternoon had slipped away and that she needed to get going. She had a long drive back to Virginia. Dorrie said not to worry about leaving her alone, that she would have company: She always ate dinner with her boyfriend. She laughed at the expression on Lacey’s face. Dorrie said it was a good thing she liked older men. “He’s ninety and still a pretty good kisser. I may be old, dear, but I’m not dead.”
Lacey kissed the old woman on the cheek when they said good-bye at the front door. “Now you come back and tell me how it all turns out,” Dorrie said. “I’ve always wanted to have a great-niece.”
chapter 26
Lacey was too exhausted to drive back to Virginia. And her stomach was complaining about not being fed, so she pulled the blue box into the lot of a small Italian restaurant called Gina’s, somewhere on the outskirts of Princeton. She was greeted by a hostess who hastily stubbed out her cigarette in an ashtray.
“Alone?” The woman raised her eyebrows in surprise. She was on the shady side of sixty, her skin olive and her raven locks exuberant. She wore years of too many rich dinners, liquor, and cigarettes on her face, but her eyes were kind.
“I’m on a business trip.” Lacey shrugged. “And I’m hungry.”
“No problem; I have a nice table for you. This is my place, so if you need anything, you just holler for Gina.” She led Lacey to a small table where the clean white-and-pink tablecloth was covered with small holes caused by cigarette burns.
Must be Gina’s own table,
she thought. Lacey ordered the chicken Bolognese. “That’s a good choice,” Gina approved. The woman returned to her bar, where she lit a Camel.
Must be Gina’s own table,
she thought. Lacey ordered the chicken Bolognese. “That’s a good choice,” Gina approved. The woman returned to her bar, where she lit a Camel.
The meal was a delicious antidote to the draining session with Dorrie. Now all Lacey wanted to do was stretch out on a firm bed and chill. A motel was her first thought. Unfortunately, the other night over nachos, Brooke and Damon had regaled her with stories about a Washington journalist named Danny Casolaro, investigating what he said was a massive government conspiracy. The last thing he told his friends was that if anything happened to him it was no accident. Shortly thereafter he was found dead in the bathtub of the blood-spattered bathroom of his motel room in Martinsburg, West Virginia, where he was supposed to meet a source. His wrists were slit and his notes were never found. The cursory investigation declared it was a suicide, although his friends and family, not to mention DeadFed, did not believe it. And there were other stories of investigative reporters killed in motel rooms. DeadFed featured a whole directory of them, but the main attraction was the late Danny Casolaro. Lacey’s thoughts grew gloomier and bloodier at the idea of pulling over to a roadside Bates Motel.
I’ve got to stop reading that damned Web site. Curse you, Damon Newhouse. But then she had a happier thought. Journalists never seem to die at a bed-and-breakfast. At least not on DeadFed.
Just then Gina stopped by with the bill and to ask if Lacey needed anything else. And as a matter of fact she did. Sure enough, Gina had a friend who ran a bed-and-breakfast just a couple of blocks away. The kindly restaurant owner made a phone call and in twenty minutes Lacey was checked into an old Victorian mansion with her own cozy room and bath. She breathed a little easier, and she called Vic at her apartment on her new cell phone. She explained that she couldn’t drive home because she was too fried. Donovan agreed with her, but she couldn’t tell whether he sounded annoyed or concerned. “I should have gone with you,” he said. He promised not to tell anyone where she was, including the FBI.
After wedging a chair under the doorknob of her locked door and tucking her phone under the pillow where she could grab it in a hurry, Lacey finally went to sleep. Despite her exhaustion, her sleep was restless, filled with dreams of Gloria Adams in a silky blue dress. She kept hearing the voice of Marie, the psychic, crooning in a soft, singsong Cajun voice, “We’re planting morning glories in the trunk, in the trunk.” Lacey tried to look into Gloria’s face, but it turned into the black hole where Esme’s face used to be and the wraith danced away into the mist.
Lacey pulled herself awake at seven the next morning. The chair was still propped against the door and the cell phone was still under the pillow next to her. After a quick shower and the accompanying breakfast she was on her way. The silk package in her trunk was weighing heavily on her mind. The conjunction of the two words
silk
and
trunk
was giving her chills. Her life seemed to be far too full of too much silk in too many trunks—Marilyn‘s, Gloria’s, Mimi‘s, Dorrie’s, and now hers. She drove into Princeton, where she saw a small crowd entering a Catholic church, and she thought about Jeffrey. She stopped for the eight-o‘clock Mass. And remembering the famous Officer O’Leary, she stayed until the last hymn was sung.
silk
and
trunk
was giving her chills. Her life seemed to be far too full of too much silk in too many trunks—Marilyn‘s, Gloria’s, Mimi‘s, Dorrie’s, and now hers. She drove into Princeton, where she saw a small crowd entering a Catholic church, and she thought about Jeffrey. She stopped for the eight-o‘clock Mass. And remembering the famous Officer O’Leary, she stayed until the last hymn was sung.
“You can’t do anything with it, Lacey. It is the story of an old lady, the kind of story that you love, but it’s just a story. People can say anything when they’re old.” Vic was cooking himself an omelet for lunch in her kitchen when she showed up at her apartment. He had stayed the night to make sure that no one tried to break in. He looked perfectly restored, while she felt like a limp rag, although she hoped she didn’t look like it.
“Must you always be right? It’s so annoying.”
He laughed and tended to his concoction, which was dripping with cheese and redolent of bacon and onions. “I’ll split this with you.” Vic poured her a cup of coffee from her old stainless-steel percolator. “You ever consider a coffeemaker?”
“I like that pot. Coffee comes out fiercer.”
“Like you. Okay, let’s think about what Dorrie Rogers told you. Let’s say that Hugh clocks this Adams character in the head. Stuffs her in the trunk. Then what? The trunk is gone. Not only is it gone, it is sixty years gone. It’s not like he’s going to keep it around in his trophy room. He dumped it in the ocean, in a landfill, or maybe he burned it in the woods. Believe me, Lacey, it’s nowhere. And then there’s always the possibility ...”
“What?”
“That he didn’t kill her. I know that ruins your story, but all the evidence is circumstantial. Worse, anecdotal. Maybe she left on her own. Maybe he paid her off and she changed her name, had his baby or not, started a new life. Married someone else. Or got hit by a truck on the Jersey Turnpike.”
“Say she did start another life—a tiger doesn’t change its stripes, Vic. So if Gloria Adams became Jane Doe she would still have been sketching designs somewhere on this planet. Somewhere there would be a great female designer who looks just like Gloria Adams only with a different name. She’d be as famous as Edith Head or Coco Chanel. But that didn’t happen. And don’t tell me I wouldn’t recognize her work, because I would. Her style was that unique. Besides, none of this changes the fact that Hugh Bentley took her work and never gave her any credit. His most brilliant collection was based on her designs and he’s been living on it all these years.”
Vic split the omelet with a spatula and served it on her Franciscan Desert Rose plates. “All right, let’s say Hugh Bentley is a murdering bastard. What do you think you can do?”
“Just one thing: Wear Gloria’s design. In front of Hugh Bentley at the gala—just like the telltale heart. And no one else in the world may know what happened to Gloria Adams, but God knows, Hugh Bentley knows, and I know.”
“You left out that Dorrie Rogers knows, and now I know.” He grinned like a handsome pirate. Lacey left out that Miguel Flores will know and Stella Lake will know, which meant it would stay a secret for only so long. He dug into the omelet.
“By the way, this is delicious,” she said.
“I have hidden depths.”
She smiled at that. “There is possibly one other thing I can do. You know Gary Braddock? The Undertaker?”
“Yes.” He looked at her doubtfully.
“It’s time to call the FBI. Besides, he’s on my speed dial.”
After they cleared the plates away and cleaned up, Lacey spread the creamy vintage silk fabric that Dorrie had given her on her dining room table. She cut three good-sized pieces from it, each large enough to see the embroidered flower pattern. The largest piece she placed in a box and tied with string. Then she called Brooke.
“Lacey, what’s up? I haven’t heard from you in days!”
“I need something secured again. Can you assemble the League of Justice for me?”
Vic interrupted from the kitchen. “You’re nuts, you know that?”
“Excuse me, Brooke. A little static on the line.” She covered the receiver with her hand. To Vic she said, “Do you have a better idea?”
He put his hands up in the air in surrender. “I’m going to finish the dishes.”
“Lacey, do you have a man in your apartment?” Brooke demanded, her voice quavering with excitement. “The pheromone jammers must be weakening; is it Code Green again?”
“Very funny. I’ll tell you later.”
Vic made the call to Braddock after Lacey hung up with Brooke. “He wants to meet us at the Krispy Kreme on Route One at four o’clock,” he said as he handed back the phone.
“You’re joking. Doughnuts?” She was not impressed by the Bureau’s choice of clandestine meeting locations.
“Sorry, I guess all of the spooky underground parking garages were booked.”
Lacey decided to change into khaki slacks with a black knit sweater, so she would look casual but not sloppy. She also decided to freshen her makeup. Vic stood by the bathroom door watching her. “Aren’t you ready yet?”
“I’m taking ten minutes, okay? I’m always careful how I dress for the FBI. The Undertaker can amuse himself watching the doughnuts march through the amazing waterfall of glaze.”
“Are you grumpy?”
Lacey looked at Vic. “I’m exhausted.” She squinted in the mirror at her pale face. Blush was definitely in order.
“Well, I hope Krispy Kreme is ready for this vision of loveliness.”
“Has that smart mouth ever gotten you into trouble?”
“Many a time,” he said, “but I talk my way out of it.” He nuzzled her ear on their way to the door.
And that’ll get him into trouble too,
she thought.
she thought.
Vic drove, and Lacey fought sleepiness on the short drive to Northern Virginia’s celebrated palace of doughnuts. Once it had been famed as the northernmost outpost of the Krispy Kreme doughnut empire. But first they had a small mission to accomplish.
Brooke had agreed to meet her for a handoff of the package in front of the Old Town library. Lacey gave her the box and told her to secure it. Lacey had kept the largest piece of the silk in her apartment, sealed in a plastic bag and hidden in the back of her bookshelf. The third small piece was in her handbag, folded in a white envelope.
Brooke looked pretty in a sky-blue sundress topped with a crocheted white sweater. The weather was too warm to give in to wearing nylons and heavy clothing. Her bag with its tropical motif betrayed a desire for the late summer to linger, with its newfound romance with Damon Newhouse. Brooke did not look the part of the serious young barrister today. Instead it looked like the warning code for amorous adventures was bright green.
Green for
go.
Green for
go.
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