Hostile Makeover (38 page)

“Hand-to-hand combat, instead.”

“Come on, it would be fun, Lace.” Cherise thought everything sounded fun. “We could be hot-chick crime fighters together. We could write the book on it.”

“I can see it now,” Lacey said.
“Jumping Tiger, Kicking Dragon: The Cheerleader’s Guide to Martial Arts.”

“Was that a smart remark, big sister? ’Cause it sounded like a smart remark to me.”

“A smart remark?
Moi?
” Lacey said. “Why, I never.”

Chapter 29

Lacey fumbled with Hansen’s keys and unlocked the warehouse door. Rose and Cherise marched into the studio’s reception area, with Lacey bringing up the rear. She flipped on a switch. The fluorescent light buzzed unpleasantly and made them all look a little green. A small office lay behind the postage stamp of a reception area, which featured both an electric heater and a fan, indicating that it was always either too hot or too cold. Lacey figured that when all the studio lights were on it would get quite hot, but the cinder-block walls made it chilly this evening. Despite her leather jacket, she shivered.

Outfitted in the cheapest of put-it-together-yourself furniture, a desk, bookshelves, plastic filing cabinets full of files, and some folding chairs, the reception room was functional, but not at all inviting. It was an unpleasant contrast to the luxurious Powers home they had just left.

A side door led to the studio, which was long and narrow, with a makeup area up front, a curtained changing area, and the actual shooting stage at the back. She glanced briefly into the room: Open shelves full of props and equipment lined the walls. In the center of the room tripods, lights, and reflectors were set up, probably for Monday morning’s first customers: actors, no doubt, in need of flattering head shots. Cameras waited on their tripods, a digital Nikon, thirty-five-millimeter SLRs, several video cameras, a Hasselblad, a big, old-fashioned Linhof view camera. A gray paint-spattered backdrop covered the back wall, behind stools and director’s chairs facing the cameras. Nearby, other backdrops were folded, black and white and blue ones, and others in various shades and textures.

Her mother and Cherise watched Lacey as she quickly scanned the shelves. The props consisted mostly of sports equipment: baseball bats and tennis rackets, balls and caps. There was also a cache of toys for children, something colorful that would help them smile for those priceless photographs for Grandma and Grandpa.

“Just think, Mom,” Cherise said, “maybe we’ll solve Amanda’s murder here, all of us together. Cool, huh?”

“That’s asking a lot for one weekend,” Rose said drily. “But nothing is impossible.”

Ignoring their banter, Lacey decided she didn’t see what she was looking for in the photo studio, so they all retreated to the reception area with its office and the tiny restrooms. The office was locked, but the key was on Hansen’s key ring. They must share it, Lacey thought. One wall was covered with tear sheets from
The Eye
of Hansen’s own work, plus some enlargements of head shots of local actors Lacey recognized.

Although it was small, it was more comfortable than the reception area. It had an ugly gray sofa, the unimaginative color of choice in so many Washington establishments, a brown-striped cushioned chair, and two old wooden desks, all facing four or five TV sets and a bookshelf full of videotapes and DVDs showcasing Penfield’s work. One desk was set up as a makeshift video-editing studio: an Apple computer, two monitors, speakers, headphones, remotes, and a stack of DVD, VHS, and Beta SP decks for editing and copying his documentary footage. Lacey knew this had to be where he’d put together Amanda’s film.

“Just sit down for a minute, I’m looking for . . .” Lacey ran her fingers along the bookshelf until she laid her hands on what she was seeking.

“What?” Cherise sounded anxious.

“
The Chrysalis Factor
, the original episodes with Amanda Manville, before the makeover.” Lacey turned on the biggest television set, fiddled with some buttons, found the right remote control, and popped the videotape into the VCR.

“Lacey, dear,” her mother said, “you have not given us the background we need if we’re going to help you solve this mystery.”

“Let’s just watch the show, and if I see what I’m looking for, you’ll be the first to know. Besides, you’ll like it; you’ll get to meet Amanda again the way she was, the original, un-made-over Amanda.”

“I don’t think I should tell your father about our new red dining room.”

“You know, Mom,” Cherise said, “he’s going fishing with the guys next weekend.”

“That’s brilliant, Cherise! I’ll have it done by the time he gets back.”

“Well, I, for one, am glad I haven’t left you alone in my apartment,” Lacey said. “Next week you’ll be back in Denver, safe and sound, and you can paint the whole house fire-engine red. For that matter you can paint Dad fire-engine red too, if he’ll hold still long enough.”
And leave my apartment alone!

“Not the whole house, dear, just the dining room. And not a fire-engine red. I was thinking of that nice deep red we saw at the house in Georgetown. Cranberry, or ruby. But maybe I could paint our bedroom navy? For a nice contrast.” Rose settled into the gray sofa, folded her arms against the chilly air, leaned her head against the back of the sofa, and closed her eyes. “Something to show my bridge club.”

Lacey turned on the videotape. She also switched on a small space heater she found under the desk to warm up the room. She closed the office door to keep the heat in.

“But what are you looking for that just has to be done tonight?” Cherise asked.

“Simple, a clue. A fashion clue. After all, that’s my job. I saw something that someone wore in Penfield’s documentary, but I can’t be sure of what it was until I watch the tape. And we’re watching it here tonight because I don’t want to steal it and have someone miss it. And all the other interested parties whom I’d rather not run into are partying in Georgetown, out of our hair. And while we’re talking about killers: Remember, we don’t have to catch him. We have cops for that. I only have to uncover him. Or her.”

“Her? You think it’s a her?” Cherise was incredulous. “Yipes, I knew it was Yvette! Or Zoe! You’ll tell me when you see whatever it is you’re looking for, okay?”

The addictive little melodrama of Amanda’s makeover journey finally started and stilled the chatter. It seemed to Lacey that Rose and Cherise should have had quite enough of Amanda by now, but they were riveted. And the first shot of Amanda before the surgery was startling.

“I don’t need to be beautiful; I just want to look normal,” were Amanda’s first words for the cameras on
The Chrysalis Factor,
nearly four years before. Lacey had forgotten how gawky the bird-like girl nicknamed Ostrich had seemed, and yet, how charming, especially by contrast with the screaming diva she became. Even her vocal quality was warmer than the screech she had somehow attained at the height of her fame. But Lacey was looking for the interviews with Amanda’s friends and relatives. She fast-forwarded, to yelps of dismay from Rose and Cherise, who wanted to savor every minute.

“Slow down! That is not the same woman,” Cherise said, squinting at the screen. “No way.” The younger Zoe had also arrived on screen with something of a shock. “That can’t be Zoe Manville!” Cherise hooted. “I mean, it sort of looks like her, but I don’t know; the Zoe we saw today would make two of her.”

“It’s her,” Lacey said. “I think Amanda fattened her up in revenge.”

They all listened intently as young Zoe spoke, not quite convincingly, about how hard it was to be “the pretty sister.” “Oh, my God! She was a cheerleader too,” a horrified Cherise protested. “What happened to her?”

“She broke the cheerleader’s fit-for-life oath. They can’t all be you, Cherise,” Lacey said, returning her attention to the video. The interview with Caleb Collingwood, Amanda’s boyfriend, came next as they sat side by side on the ugly sofa. This was the clip that Penfield’s documentary had reduced to a quick flash of Caleb giving Amanda that odd look, a look that seen in full now seemed to say, “Please don’t let the woman I love slip away from me.” And then there it was in plain sight, Lacey’s “fashion clue” to the killer’s identity. She was stunned. She had to remember to breathe as she watched. She grabbed the remote and froze the frame for a long moment.

Caleb was wearing a heavy fisherman’s knit sweater that Amanda had made for him in ivory wool. It looked brand-new. She had even cable-stitched their initials, A. M. and C. C., down the sleeves, entwined together in an intricate pattern, the same pattern Amanda had crocheted on the sleeves of the abandoned wedding dress Zoe had shown Lacey. It made the sweater unique. Caleb proudly showed it off for the camera and gave Amanda a kiss on the forehead. Together they spoke of their wedding plans and their lives ahead of them. The pre-
Chrysalis
Amanda had loved to knit; Zoe had shown Lacey some of her work. And the post-
Chrysalis
Amanda went ballistic when she saw the shabby old sweater that Tate Penfield claimed to love, his “sentimental favorite,” Lacey remembered.
There it is: It is the same sweater.

The scene switched to Dr. Greg Spaulding, who discussed what could be done about Amanda’s looks. “Do I feel like Pygmalion?” he said. “A bit. But this is all about giving a young woman the normal life she wants.”

“A normal life was the last thing she got,” Lacey said aloud.

“Hush, we’re watching.” Cherise turned the volume up.

“Turn it off,” Lacey said. “We can go now. Gotta call Broadway, bug him with this fashion clue. Come on.”

“No!” Cherise cried. “I never saw this bit.”

Rose put her foot down. “Lacey, dear, you simply can’t keep interrupting us. We need to see all the clues. You may think you have what you need, but we want to see the whole show. I want to see how it ends.”

“We know how it ends!”

“Yes, sadly, we do. But Cherise and I want to see the transformation, step by step. I never saw this the first time it was on TV. It was on opposite one of your father’s bass fishing shows or something.” Her mother returned her attention to Amanda. Cherise nodded and put her finger to her mouth to shush all the talk. They were engrossed; there was no moving them now.

Lacey sighed deeply.
Next thing they’ll want to order a pizza and watch Penfield’s entire videotape collection.
She stood up and walked softly to the door into the reception area. “Okay. Five minutes. I’ll just go make sure I locked the front door.” Rose and Cherise waved her on without looking up. She closed the office door behind her.

Lacey could see the front door was shut, but before she even tried the knob she had a sinking feeling she wasn’t alone in the warehouse. She heard a sound from the photo studio.
It’s nothing, he can’t be here, he was busy being lionized by the Georgetown crowd.
She stepped through the studio door, hoping she was wrong. Her heartbeat sped up and told her she was right.

“Hello, Lacey. Alone at last.”

No,
she told herself and turned at his voice. He was standing in the shadows between the cameras and the backdrop.

“Hello, Tate,” she said quietly. “Or should I say Caleb?”

Chapter 30

“Caleb Collingwood is dead,” he replied. “Hadn’t you heard? Amanda Manville killed him.”

Tate Penfield reached into his camera bag and pulled out the old, and now quite worn, fisherman’s knit sweater that Lacey had admired when she first met him. The one she had just seen Caleb Collingwood proudly show off on videotape, his gift from Amanda. The one he’d worn to tatters. Lacey was right: It was the same sweater. Her stomach flipped, right on cue.

“I had heard that,” Lacey said. “I even read it on the Web, so it must be true. But nobody seemed to know for sure how Caleb died or where he was buried, so I never quite bought it one hundred percent. Corpus delicti, and all that.”

Penfield lovingly stroked the sweater. “That’s what I like about you. You just keep going for it. DeadFed was right.”

“When I left the party, you were surrounded by admirers,” Lacey said, hoping her voice didn’t quaver. She took a breath. “I thought you’d be busy all night.”

“Yes, but I saw you chat with Hansen and then leave. As soon as I could shake off the groupies, I asked him where you went, made my excuses to the crowd, and here I am.”

“How did you get here so fast?”

“Shortcut. I’ve been all over the District ever since college. You probably came up New York Avenue, right? That traffic’s a killer.”

“Why did you follow me here?”

“I wanted to see you figure it out.” Penfield’s smile lit up his beautiful face. “When Hansen told me you were coming here, everything was clicking into place. Just as I hoped. Even a day or two early.”

“You’ve been baiting me. Why?” There was no answer. “I don’t get it. No one would ever have known you were Caleb.”

“They will now.” Tate seemed pleased that she had unmasked him, and Lacey couldn’t imagine why.

“How?”

“You’ll tell them.”

“Right.”
If I get out of here alive, yes, I sure as hell will.
“Amanda knew who you were all along. That’s why she was angry about you wearing that ‘ratty old sweater.’ ”

“But you said you liked it,” he said. “And that really pleased me.”

“You said it was a sentimental favorite.”

Penfield laughed and slipped the sweater over his head, stretching his arms through the frayed sleeves with their interconnected initials of C. C. and A. M. As tattered as it was, it looked richly textured over his black turtleneck sweater. He stepped toward her into the light so she could admire it.

Was it some kind of talisman, a good-luck charm? Lacey couldn’t take her eyes off him. He didn’t seem to have a weapon. He didn’t act threatening. She told herself to bide her time, wait for the right moment.

He drew a deep breath and said, “That’s better. It’s always cold in here. Well, except when it’s hot. Mandy made this for me as an engagement present, you know.”