Grave Apparel (69 page)

Her predictions
would,
as usual, include what she
wanted
to see and had no real hope of seeing: Clothes that
fit
and that or dinary
women
could
afford,
structured
fashions
that flattered the
figure,
and classic lines that
would
last for more than one season. Her fashion predictions were notoriously
inaccurate,
but
nobody at
The
Eye
seemed to mind, least of all Mac.
Lacey
tried to consider it a noble
onewoman
crusade for good taste. Perhaps
she’d
have
to come up with the best and
worst
trends for the coming
year.
Mac
liked
that one too.
Lacey
was
compil ing ideas as she headed for his
office,
so
he’d
think
she’d
actu ally been planning something. White shirts, in or out? Black sweaters, hot or not?
Brown
is the
new
black? Size zero is the
new
two?

Mac
was wordsmithing
something when she stuck her head

through his
doorway.
His head
was
down,
his
eyebrows
drawn
in concentration.

“You
bellowed?”
she said.

He
straightened
up
and
gave
her
a
weary
stare.
“Cassandra
wants
to talk to
you.”

“Will
this torment
never
end? Where is she, is she
home
yet?”

“No, still in the hospital,
but
feeling
feisty.”
“What is it this time?”

“She
wouldn’t
tell
me.”
He
returned
to
the
papers
on
his
desk.
“What about Johnson? She told him about the
stalker.
I’m sure he could squeeze the truth out of
her.
If not a lot
more.”
“Don’t
give
me
any
more grief,
Smithsonian.”

“But
it’s
the season for
giving,
Mac. Oh, all right,
I’ll
give
her a
call.”

“No. Go see
her.
In person,
Lacey.”
It
was
an
order,
another in a long line. “People spill more information
face
to
face.
You
know
that.”

Yes,
she
knew
that. “Did you tell her about the drama in the
lobby?
Cuffing
her
mad
stalker?”
She
leaned
against
Mac’s
wall,
her arms crossed.

“Yes.”

“Was
she
relieved?”
Lacey
persisted. “Did you tell her the cops turned him loose? Did you tell her he has an alibi? Did you tell her he
wasn’t
the guy in the
alley?”

“You
are not
interviewing
me.”
Mac glared at
her.
“Yes,
I heard he
was
cut loose.
You
were right and we were wrong.
Happy
now?
Go talk to
Cassandra.”
He sighed
deeply,
as if she were just another tragic interruption in his
day.
“She
wants
you. I
have
no
idea
why.”

“She probably
wants
to
throw
things at
me.”

“Don’t
go
throwing
things
back.
She’s a
sick
woman.

Humor
her,
okay?”

Lacey
rubbed her
eyes.
“When is somebody going to humor me, Mac?”

“Don’t
get
any
wise
ideas.”
He stood up and reached for his
coffee
cup. “Maybe Cassandra can tell you something she
can’t
tell Johnson.
You’ve
seen
how
those
two
are
together,
they
can barely speak.
Turns
your stomach. Maybe she can be honest
with
you.
God
knows
why.
Maybe
she’s
a
masochist.
But
go
see
her,
it might be
important.”

“She
can
talk
to
me
because
she
doesn’t
like
me?
That
makes
a lot of
sense.”

“You
have
a gift,
Smithsonian.”
He actually laughed.
“It’s
the season for
giving,
right? So
give
me a break!
Now
get out of
here.”

Cassandra
looked
more
alive
than the last time
Lacey
visited,
but
she still
wore
that look of pained
superiority.
The big ban dage
was
gone, replaced by a
smaller,
neater one. Someone had
cleaned
her
up
a
little,
but
she
still
had
clumps
of
hair
that
looked
like
they
were stuck together with dried blood. It
was
not an
attractive
look.
Not
her fault,
Lacey
thought.

“I heard you were going home
soon,”
Lacey
said.
“Tomorrow,
they
tell me, if I
behave,”
Cassandra said. She
was
sitting
up
in
her
hospital
bed,
surrounded
by
stacks
of
newspapers.

“Looks
like
you’ve
been
busy.”

“Trying
to
catch
up.
Mac
said
the
cops
questioned
my
stalker.”

Lacey
set her purse
down
in the
chair.
She tossed her coat on the purse. It
looked like
she
would
be here
awhile.
“Word
trav
els
fast.
Did he also tell you
they
let him go?”

Cassandra nodded. “I thought this
was
all
over,
but
now
it’s
not.”
She seemed to be holding back tears. “If it
wasn’t
him, who
was
it? I’m so confused. And I
don’t
understand the part about the candy cane.
It’s
so weird to use that for a weapon.
How
bizarre is that?”

“What about the sweater?”

Cassandra
looked
away.
“They
say it
was
all meant to send me a message, hoisting me on my
own
candy cane, so to speak, because of that sweater editorial. Do you think this man
they
caught at the paper could still be the one who
attacked
me?”

“I think letter writers write letters.
They
pour all their anger into their
diatribes,”
Lacey
said. She remembered the confusion on
Graybill’s
face
when he
was
escorted out the door by the po

lice. And their little chat at
Starbucks.
“I’m not sure
they
have
a lot of
energy
left after that. He seems to
have
an alibi,
anyway.
I
don’t
think it
was
him.”

“Did you see the man? I think
I’ve
seen him,
but
only out of the corner of my
eye.”

“Tall,
skinny,
muddy
brown
hair turning
gray,
dull
complex
ion, a
navy
dress coat.
Wireframed
glasses.”
Lacey
crossed her
arms.

“That’s
the
man.”
A tear trickled
down
her cheek and she rubbed it
away.
“But
it’s
not him?
That’s
what
you’re
telling
me?”

“Probably
not.
Why
didn’t
you
tell
me
about
the
letters,
and
being
stalked?”

“I
didn’t
think
you’d
understand
how
awful
it is.
Everyone
knows
how
strong you are. Smithsonian tangles with killers. Smithsonian defends herself with hair spray! Smithsonian this, Smithsonian that. But being threatened and
stalked
is
different,
it’s
so insidious, so psychological.
You
have
no idea. I am a tar get for hatred, I took on that
burden
knowingly.
But you, you
just
stumble
into
these
things,
who
knows
why,
you’re
just
the
lousy
fashion
writer.”

“Thanks for clearing that up for me. I
haven’t
been insulted in at least twenty minutes. And
actually,
I’m a pretty good
fash
ion
writer.
So
why
exactly
did
you
call
me
here,
Cassandra?”
This
was
getting neither of them
anywhere.

“I remembered something. Something
important.”
“What? Something about the attack?”

“No, I wish it were. Something that happened when I
was
still in the
office.
After you and I had
words.
I remember that
too.”
Cassandra took a deep breath.
Was
an apology about to spill out?
Lacey
wondered.
“This
isn’t
easy,
but
I
have
to get it out. So please,
don’t
interrupt
me.”

“I
haven’t
said a
word.
Go
on.”

“I came back. I
walked
down
the aisle between your desks, yours and
Felicity’s.
I
wanted
to say something else to you, I
don’t
remember
now
what it
was,
but
you
weren’t
there. No one
was
around. And I—I’m not proud of this—” Cassandra took another breath and rubbed her hands
together.
“But you
have
to understand, I
was
so
angry,
and you were so—so flippant! So— I
don’t
know.
Flippant!
Snarky!”

“Flippancy
in
the
first
degree.
Aggravated
snarkiness.
I

blame
Lacey
Smithsonian for all the
snarkasm
in the
world.
Everyone
does.”
Lacey
sat
down
and made herself comfortable.
“Lacey’s
ruining Christmas too, did you
know?
My secret plan.
Today,
Washington.
Tomorrow
I will ruin Christmas all
over
the
world.”