Hostile Makeover (4 page)

He leaned close in confidence. “Now, I personally think this makeover nonsense is a stupid idea, and an expensive idea, but those high-priced consultants have sold the idea to our boss lady.”

“Claudia?” Lacey liked Claudia Darnell, the publisher, but once she had an idea, it was pretty much cast in concrete. “Why on earth—”

“They say it will put a friendlier face on the news. Warmer. Fuzzier.”

Lacey growled at the very idea.

“That’s not a friendlier face.” Mac chuckled. Lacey ignored him and looked for a fresh notebook and her favorite pen. “With your ‘Crimes of Fashion’ column, maybe you could wear a trench coat, deerstalker hat, magnifying glass, stalking the wild fashion criminal, that sort of thing.” Mac was most dangerous when he was being creative.

“No picture, Mac.” She glared at him.
He is getting all the wrong ideas about my fashion beat,
Lacey thought.
And my column.
“I mean it.”

“Think about it; you’ll like it. Besides, you’re, what’s the word? Photogenic. You’ll have the best picture in the paper. As long as you keep your eyes open.” Lacey snorted. Mac suddenly inhaled deeply and turned at the aroma of freshly baked cinnamon muffins approaching from behind him. Felicity Pickles, food editor and carbohydrate pusher, chose that moment to offer Mac her platter of cinnamon muffins. Wearing a wilted, faded pink, sleeveless organdy dress, Felicity looked like the last rose of summer. Mac selected the largest one with the most icing. He favored her with the kind of smile he rarely gave to Lacey. A sugar-high smile.

Mac’s wife, Kim, was trying to get him to watch his weight and his blood pressure. But Kim wasn’t there, and Felicity’s muffin was. He munched off down the hall. Lacey knew he would blithely ignore any good advice she might offer. So she didn’t try.

Felicity offered her wares to Lacey with a crocodile smile and those glassy blue eyes. “Try one. You’ll like it.” It was nearly impossible for Lacey to keep in shape, especially in Washington, where work kept most people’s butts in their chairs all day, and stress and long working hours encouraged bad eating habits. And there was Felicity, making it a little harder. Fresh air and exercise seemed to be for other people, like the President and his Secret Service detail, forever pounding around the White House running track in their sweats.
He thinks he’s got stress,
Lacey thought.
He doesn’t have Felicity.

The cinnamon buns were just a symbol of the war between them, as the food editor sought desperately to win friends and fatten them up in one fell swoop, Lacey surmised.
Before dragging them off to her gingerbread house in the woods.
In that case, Wiedemeyer would make a tasty morsel for Felicity, the Gingerbread Witch. Lacey shuddered at the thought. Of course, with the Wiedemeyer Effect in the picture, could an exploding stove be far behind?
Headline: “Mysterious Blaze Guts Gingerbread House in Woods. Fire Investigators Blame ‘Bad Luck.’ ”

Lacey couldn’t mistake the hostility behind the gesture and Felicity’s recent attempt to steal her beat. Felicity couldn’t forget that her minivan was bombed because somebody thought she was Lacey Smithsonian, even though it was her own fault for trying to steal a story from Lacey, and the effort blew up in her face, so to speak.

“No, thanks, I’m trying to quit,” Lacey said. She thought again of Harlan Wiedemeyer and his forlorn crush on Felicity. “Why don’t you offer one to Wiedemeyer?” She waved down the hall toward the death-and-dismemberment beat.

It was an offhand comment, but Felicity blushed and turned away quickly.
A blush? Could it be that Felicity likes Harlan Wiedemeyer?
But Felicity just said, “Harlan already brought in a box of doughnuts.”

“I guess you two have something in common then.”
Food and destroyed vehicles,
Lacey thought. “Maybe you could trade.”

“I don’t think so.” Felicity snatched up her goodies and scurried away, clearly hoping to find someone more grateful than Lacey Smithsonian.

She turned her mind to work and pawed through her desk looking for her notes. Interviewing Amanda Manville, the famous celebrity model who was introducing a new line of clothing that she allegedly had designed herself, was slightly intimidating. Ms. Manville was certain to be a masterpiece of physical perfection, no doubt wearing some wispy outfit that flattered her tall yet supermodel-svelte body.

Next to a perfectly manufactured beauty like Amanda, Lacey was afraid she’d look short and frumpy. She needed both to look her best and to be on her guard, particularly if the celebrated supermodel was also a manslaughterer, as rumored. And Vic’s reaction to her nervous babbling had reminded her just how little she really knew about Amanda Manville.

She called Miguel Flores, her fashion-industry-insider friend, who was freelancing as a clothing stylist for fashion shoots in New York. He had worked for years for the House of Bentley, and he knew everyone. He would have the inside skinny on any skinny supermodel Lacey could name.

“Hey, doll! What’s up? God, I’ve missed you! And how’s Stella? Sorry I couldn’t make the funeral, but I hate funerals anyway. All those little black dresses, and not a cocktail in sight.”

“Missed you too, darling. Stella is Stella, as always. And I’ve got a question for you. What’s the dish on Amanda Manville?”

“Ah, the
prima
prima donna. Would you like that dish baked or barbecued?”

“How about the straight story?”

“Please, how dull. And straight is
so
not my forte. Besides, when it comes to Amanda, who knows what’s fact or fiction? She goes through stylists, hair, clothes, and otherwise, as if they were Kleenex. Use once, throw away. Everybody up here has some outrageous Amanda story, even people who usually have to make them up.”

“So she’s temperamental?” Lacey leafed through her files to find the press release on Amanda Manville’s collection.

“Some people think that. Personally, I think she’s a screaming psycho. Between you and me, she’s a bitch slapper, and that hasn’t been popular with underlings since indentured servitude went out of style.”

“But she always seemed so sweet on TV.”

“Ah, but that was before the makeover. Apparently she got a new soul as well. Or she sold the old one.”

“Could make for an interesting interview. Will I need a bulletproof vest?”

“And a sword cane. You
are
uniquely qualified to interview her, come to think of it.”

Lacey laughed. “So, her new collection. Did she really design it herself?” She was jotting down notes as they talked. She found the errant press release, with her note on the time and place for her interview, and stashed it in her purse.

“Oh, please. Do politicians write their own books? And you, of all people, should know how designers—some designers, that is—launch their careers. Thieves, the lot of them. Though I hear the collection cost her investors enough, it should at least be worth seeing.”

“And Miguel, what’s the story on the old boyfriend? Caleb Collingwood, I think the name was. The one she’s supposed to have killed?”

“Everyone swears it’s true, only no one knows anything.”

“No corpse?” Lacey asked.

“No corpse, no cops, no charges. But we certainly enjoy making it all up.”

“What about motive? For getting rid of him?”

“Too ugly to live. I’m serious.”

“What? That’s terrible.”

“It’s just what they say. Don’t blame me for being shallow; I’m a product of my environment. It’s the rumor. Or one of them, anyway. Suicide is another popular theory. Too boring, I say. Anyway, after she had the surgery, he didn’t measure up anymore. Amanda was, like, instant Ariel, and he was still the same old Caliban. He wouldn’t go away, so he had to, ahem, go away. So they say—Yikes, my client is here early! That never happens. Gotta go. Kiss-kiss.”

Lacey stared at the phone for a moment after Miguel hung up. She had chosen that morning to go with a vaguely 1940s look, her favorite. Her hairstylist, Stella Lake, once pointed out that the Lacey Smithsonian signature style was a combination of Rosie the Riveter and
His Girl Friday
: “Brains, beauty, and no bullshit,” in Stella’s memorable phrase. Lacey had to admit that Stella had her number. She had selected her vintage forest-green wool-gabardine suit, nipped in at the waist, with a delicate lace hankie tucked into the pocket and secured with a porcelain rose pin. She wore her three-strand pearl necklace and pearl studs in her ears. Her soft light brown hair, highlighted with blond strands, swung around her shoulders, a look reminiscent of early Lauren Bacall, but with more volume and presence. Stella was so good at this cut that Lacey had started to call it “the Bacall,” although Stella herself just called it “the usual.” Lacey thought she’d pass inspection with nearly everyone; everyone except, perhaps, the perfect psycho, Amanda Manville.

I’ll just have to stay out of slapping distance,
she told herself.

Lacey bent over her bottom desk drawer and heard another familiar voice mocking her.

“Hey, Lois Lane, still in one piece? I see we are wearing our vintage bravado today.” Her glance traveled from the desk drawer where she kept her notebooks to the black lizard cowboy boots that stood by her desk.

“Morning, Trujillo.” She straightened up in her chair. Tony Trujillo looked good, as always, with his inquisitive almond eyes and beautiful New Mexico copper skin.

“You win the prize for making it through the night after a trip home with the Wiedemeyer.”

“He didn’t actually take me home. I gave that pleasure to a Yellow Cab.”

“Smart move. I was worried, Supergirl.”

Lacey appraised his expression. Perhaps he
was
a bit worried underneath the sly smile, which revealed his perfect set of straight white choppers. “I’m fine, Tony. Really. Thank you for your concern. By the way, do you know anything about this Amanda . . .”

The aroma of the cinnamon-spiced air hijacked Trujillo’s attention. Felicity had returned bearing her tray of buns. He reached for a gooey glazed treat and dazzled her with his smile. “Ooh,
muchas gracias!
I’ve missed you, Felicidad.”

Felicity melted. “Oh, Tony. Take another.”

Lacey decided she’d schmooze Trujillo later, after his carbohydrate buzz wore off. But before she left for her interview she wanted to know something.

“Felicity, what are the names of your cats again?”

“Hansel and Gretel. They were orphaned in the woods, and I found them and lured them home with a trail of tuna.” Felicity practically purred with pride. She indicated their framed photos on her desk.

Aha! I knew it. She
is
a gingerbread witch.

“Oh, Lacey, you’d love them; they’re just adorable.”

And so well fed, I’ll wager. Here, kitty, kitty, time for dinner!

Lacey retreated to the staff kitchen for a cup of coffee and ran into the newspaper’s new resident storm cloud, Cassandra Wentworth, the latest addition to Mac’s oh-so-important editorial writers at
The Eye.

Cassandra was helping herself to a sort of herbal swill, something that would obviously be good for her but taste worse than medicine. She had no time for pleasure. She dealt with the more important issues of the day. Ms. Wentworth raised an eyebrow at Lacey’s presence, but politely said hello anyway. Lacey was reaching for the brackish, though caffeinated, brew that passed for coffee at
The Eye.

“That stuff will kill you.” Cassandra made a nasty face.

Just the sort of face you want to see first thing in the morning.
Lacey lifted her cup in a salute. “To each her own.”

Peter Johnson,
The Eye
’s congressional reporter, stumbled into the kitchen with his usual grace, wearing a sloppy khaki suit. His tie was askew and boldly sported various shades of mud and eggplant, and possibly a bit of breakfast. His permanent-press shirt was wrinkled.
How does he do that?
Lacey wondered. He glared at her through glasses sliding halfway down his nose, then turned his back on her.

“Morning, Peter,” she said. “What, no news on Capitol Hill?”

He ignored her while searching for a clean cup in the cupboard. He found a dusty one and blew the dust out before helping himself silently to the java. “They’re in recess,” Cassandra said, her eyes following the slumped-over curve of Johnson’s back with a look of unmistakable admiration and longing. She appeared to stifle a sigh.

What?
Lacey wondered.
Cassandra, prophetess of doom, with a crush on our cranky congressional reporter?
The high-and-mighty Johnson was single, and so was the serious Ms. Wentworth, but the image of the two of them together was too weird for Lacey to wrap her brain around.

“That’s right, Smithsonian,” he growled. “Recess. Guess you can’t trespass on my beat this week.”

“You wound me, Peter. But I am charmed that you think your beat is so special,” Lacey replied with a smirk. “And that you consider me a threat.”

“You’re no threat. You’re a menace.”

“Oh, you’re so wrong, Peter. I’m both.”

He was about to sneer some limp retort when his eyes met Cassandra’s, who quickly tore her eyes away from him and gazed down into her poisonous herbal goo. Johnson seemed to forget all about Lacey and to lose the ability to speak. But when she caught him staring at Cassandra with what seemed to be fond affection, he grabbed his coffee and bolted. His rapid exit left Cassandra sighing out loud as she stared at his retreating figure.

Was it really possible that these two unlikely specimens
liked
each other? Lacey wondered.
Mixed signals? Furtive glances? Halting words? Ah, yes, romance is in the air, D.C. style. Call the Pentagon; the pheromone jammers are down again.
But was it her job to set these two straight? Of course not.

“So what’s on the fashion agenda for today?” Cassandra said
fashion
as if it were a week-old fish Lacey was mysteriously required to gut. “Something important? The height of hems? The new black? The old black? Plum lipstick is the new pink blush?”