Hostile Makeover (13 page)

“You should never fall in love with your patient,” he continued. “And I’d like to make it clear that we never connected in that way until after the surgery.” He took a deep breath. “I have no wish to see Amanda get hurt. I just want her out of my life.” Spaulding gazed out the coffee-shop window at Connecticut Avenue, obviously wishing he was somewhere else.

“She’s getting hate mail and threats.”

“Not from me.” He turned his attention back to Lacey. “But it’s always something with Amanda. There always has to be something theatrical. She’s unhappy without some crisis in her life.”

“A drama queen and a diva?”

“She has a pathological need to be the center of attention. Maybe she never got any attention as a child, or too much of the wrong kind, I don’t know. But I don’t believe anyone is really after her.”

“Are you saying she’s writing death threats to herself?”

“Who knows? These lunatic charges against me are proof that she’s disturbed. To be honest, Ms. Smithsonian, if I could do it, I would have her fade gently away out of my life, like an old photo washed out by the sun.” He looked sad and resigned.

“Do you know whatever happened to Caleb Collingwood?”

“Who? Oh, Cal, the old boyfriend. I’d forgotten his full name. I have no idea. But I don’t believe any of that nonsense about Amanda killing him. He probably went to ground, like I’m trying to do. Though it’s possible he killed himself. I know that’s what Amanda thinks. But murdered? The media are just out of control. They write stuff just to sell papers.” Spaulding checked his watch, then stood up. “I have to go.”

“Thank you for speaking with me.”

“If you see Amanda, tell her—No, don’t tell her anything.” He smiled, tossed his trash in the can, and was gone.

Lacey threw the rest of her coffee away and rushed to make her lunch date, just a few blocks away. Stella was already inside the little bookstore/restaurant at Kramerbooks & Afterwords Café near Dupont Circle, sipping a Coke. One look at her and Lacey stopped in her tracks. Stella was wearing her Stylettos smock over a little purple leather halter number. That was to be expected, as was her short-cropped spiky hair, a sort of dark purple this week. It was totally in keeping with her profession as a hairstylist, along with the short, tight black skirt and fishnet stockings. But Stella, of all people, was carrying a plaid Burberry tote bag and wearing a pair of Burberry sling-back pumps. Lacey thought she couldn’t have looked more incongruous if she were wearing a perfect Jackie Kennedy pillbox hat perched on her purple crew cut. As Lacey approached the table, Stella waggled one Burberry pump in welcome.

“How do you like my shoes, Lacey? I know they’re, like, totally Georgetown old lady, but I think on me they’re very
ironic
. What do you think?”

“Irony works for me. But you’ve never been big on irony. Your outfits are usually more like blunt instruments.”

“Speaking of blunt, you never told me you were going to interview Amanda Manville.” She was holding up the newspaper with Lacey’s story on the Chrysalis Collection sister act.

“Stella, you’re reading the paper. I’m so proud of you.”

“Don’t be a smart-ass. So what d’you know? Yours truly is doing her hair and makeup later today for a photo shoot.”

“Lucky you. You know about her reputation?” Lacey settled into her chair, being careful not to knock anybody out of their own in Kramerbooks’ cramped space.

“Totally. I called Miguel. She’s a man killer, huh? But she only killed her boyfriend, so I should be safe, right?”

“How did you get involved?” Lacey asked, although she figured that Stella was just plugged into the universe that way. Things fell in her lap, like information, which she traded like a stockbroker. And men, whom she collected like little girls collect Barbies.

“The stylist, some punk from Stylettos Georgetown who was supposed to do it, bailed. And then Leonardo was supposed to do it; you remember Leonardo, Stylettos’ resident temperamental artiste? He bailed. This woman’s got a
rep
. So I got a call from a friend of a friend. You know how it goes.” She took a breath and a sip of her soda. “So, what’s she like? I hear she’s really whacked. With a double dose of paranoia.”

“I think she might run into trouble if she crosses you. So what’s the photo shoot for?”

“Some ads for her new design line. Or I guess I should say her sister’s designs, according to your little exposé. I hear Amanda wanted to do some location shots in the city, D.C. hot spots for backdrops, ’cause she’s local, or ex-local. You know, Adams Morgan, Georgetown, the Ken Cen. And tonight they’re starting with the fountain in Dupont Circle. Convenient.”

“No kidding. Maybe I’ll drop by and catch her in action.”

“Cool. They’re shooting at dusk. Whatever that means these days. It’s getting dark early. I’m meeting her at two o’clock.” Stella checked her watch. “So, Lace, is this a diva or what? My salon is right down the street, but no, she’s got to have her own trailer. So we’ll do it there, because she wants her privacy. But you know what? No woman is a paragon to her stylist.”

Lacey thought using the trailer would probably make it easier for Amanda’s security people, like Turtledove, to control the undesirable elements—stalkers, lethal ex-boyfriends. But she hesitated to stimulate Stella, the D.C. gossip hotline, with tales of imaginary murder plots.

“So are you going to mention me in your column? I’m looking fabulous and I’m ready for my close-up, Mr. DeMille.” Stella blew a kiss to an imaginary director.

“Still a publicity hog, I see.” Lacey grinned at her favorite stylist over her menu.

“Who always comes to your aid at the drop of a hat? I do.”

“Whether I need it or not.”

“Ha! You always need help. And what happened to your lipstick? Have you tried the all-day kind? You look like a ghost.”

“Yeah, it dries out your lips, then cakes in the lines, and it doesn’t live up to your expectations.”

“Nothing is perfect. Have you tried kissing with it? Works like a charm.”

The waiter came by and took their orders. Lacey got the crab-and-avocado salad, while Stella went for a cheeseburger with bacon.

“Wish me luck with Amanda. Hey, do you think she did it? Offed the homely guy, I mean.” Stella’s eyes were as big and round as golf balls, her spiky purple hair aquiver. “I guess the real question is, did he deserve it? Did he beat her? Cheat on her? Steal her money?”

“I never heard anything like that.”

“I bet he did. Bet he was a brute, or he pulled that old passive-aggressive shit; that drives me nuts. Yeah, the bastard probably—”

“Is everything okay with you and Bobby?” Lacey thought that Stella’s current off-and-on guy, known affectionately as “Bobby Blue Eyes,” seemed like a real sweetheart, looked like a schoolboy with a sexy secret, and seemed to keep Stella happy.
But you never know.

“Sure, why?” Stella’s countenance was benign. She munched her burger.

“It’s nothing, but you did sound a little . . . I don’t know . . . feminist vigilante just now.”

“Oh.” Stella swallowed a bite. “No, Bobby’s fab, the man of the hour. But I’ve known some real assholes in the past. I have a collection of them. I was just thinking that guy . . . what was his name?”

“Caleb Collingwood. Old Cal.”

“Yeah, I was thinking he might have been that way, and a woman who doesn’t have as much self-control as I have could’ve knocked him off.”

“Okay. There’s something else you might want to know about Amanda Manville.” Lacey leaned over the table, dangling her information like a piece of bait.

“Yeah, what? Tell me.”

“She might be a little more nuts than usual at the moment. More nuts than even Miguel told you.” Stella leaned in close. “She thinks the Grim Reaper is after her and she’s making life miserable for everyone around her.”

“The Grim Reaper? As in the long good-bye, the big siesta, the last enchilada? Wow.” Lacey now had Stella’s full and undivided attention. Stella kicked off her Burberry pumps and pushed her lunch aside, hungrier for juicy details than for a juicy burger. “Spill it, Smithsonian, and I mean
everything
.”

Chapter 10

“Long Lens” Hansen, one of
The Eye
’s staff photographers, sprawled in Lacey’s chair, his legs propped up on her desk. He was leafing through Amanda Manville’s press photos when Lacey got back to the newsroom after lunch with Stella.

“Make yourself at home, Hansen. Can I get you anything? A blanket? A pillow?” She swung her bag onto the desk and reached over him to see if her voice-mail light was on.

He straightened up and smiled at her, easing his lanky legs down. He held up a sultry photo of Amanda. “Tate Penfield does nice work.”

“Yeah, the photograph is beautiful. But she’s a lot of trouble.”

“Look at the composition,” Hansen said, dwelling on the picture.

“Taking notes?”

“Sort of. Mac told me to sweet-talk you into a head shot for your column. I’m doing all the columnists. Part of
The Eye
’s big makeover.”

“Really? You planning any of those up-the-nostril shots, or mouth-open-tongue-out-fingers-in-ears kind of photos you guys are so fond of?”

“Nah, no candids. Mac would kill me—right after you did.” He grinned. “I’ll even let you comb your hair. Besides, those up-the-nostril shots take a lot a practice, if you must know. But I find they’re important if you want to get a politician looking appropriately silly.”

Hansen had his own rogues’ gallery of candid shots tacked up outside his darkroom, photos deemed too embarrassing for even
The Eye Street Observer
to publish, Democrats and Republicans alike snapped unawares in funhouse poses, tongues wagging, features exaggerated, clothes awry. Candidates stuffing their faces with regrettable food. Senators captured making lewd gestures and moronic faces. Congressmen caught leering at the busts of nearby females. Lacey could just imagine her future place of honor on Hansen’s Wall of Shame.