Hostile Makeover (42 page)

“Thank you.” She left his office and stopped at her cubicle, where she noticed a large, flat manila envelope lying on the seat of her chair. The office mail cart had just come by. She opened it and a note tumbled out.

It was signed
Caleb Collingwood
, which was crossed out and replaced by
Tate
.

She pulled out the eight-by-ten, black-and-white matte photo. She thought it was perhaps the best photograph that had ever been taken of her. Penfield had caught a searching look in her eyes and the faintest hint of a smile. Lacey tucked it back in the envelope and set it back down. She knew she would never use it.
And I’d better not let Mac see it. I’ll put it in Mimi’s trunk. Tomorrow.

She noticed Felicity returning to her desk with a platter of gingerbread cookies. She glanced at Lacey with a big smirk on her face.

“Better be careful, Lacey. Sooner or later someone’s going to polish you off.”

Lacey was going to ignore Felicity today, but that smirk—and the cookies—made it impossible. She turned around and saw Harlan Wiedemeyer peeking out at the chubby object of his desires from behind a filing cabinet down the hall. He had a Krispy Kreme Halloween-sprinkles doughnut in his fist and a lovelorn look in his eyes. Something had to be done. Lacey needed to wipe that smirk off Felicity’s face, and she needed to confront the little jinx and throw all this stupid superstition off her shoulders. It was time to flip the switch on the accursed Wiedemeyer Effect.
Like a lightning bolt hitting a mirror,
Marie had said. She rose from her chair, marched down the hall, grabbed Wiedemeyer by his free hand, and dragged him bodily back to Felicity’s turf.

“Wait, Lacey, what’re you doing? You want a doughnut? I’ve got some back at my desk. . . .”

Felicity just stared at the two of them, dumbfounded. Lacey shoved Wiedemeyer to within inches of the food editor. No one said anything, so Lacey finally took Wiedemeyer’s hand and put it into one of Felicity’s. He gulped in sheer terror. Felicity’s eyes went wide, and her face turned fuchsia.

“Okay, this is the deal,” Lacey said. “Harlan likes you, Felicity. And you like him. Why? God only knows. I can’t explain it. A mystery of the universe. Just deal with it, both of you. Have a doughnut. Have a cookie. Have a nice life. Together.” She gave Wiedemeyer another little push toward Felicity and slung her purse over her shoulder. Lacey announced, “My work here is done.”

Lacey strode away, leaving Felicity Pickles and Harlan Wiedemeyer looking foolishly at each other. They still held each other’s hands. Wiedemeyer slowly reached out and offered Felicity his chocolate-glazed, sprinkle-covered delicacy. She stared at the doughnut and then into his wondering eyes. She smiled.

“Oh, Harlan. Thank you. Have a gingerbread cookie?”

Chapter 33

“Lacey, I feel terrible that we’re leaving you before we’ve solved your car problem.”

“It’s okay, Mom; I can take care of it myself,” Lacey said. She had neglected to tell Rose that all of a sudden it seemed to be raining cars, or at least car offerings.

First, Miguel Flores called from New York the day before to compliment her on nailing Amanda’s killer without, as he put it, “having to actually nail him
to
anything, as it were.” He mentioned that he still had no place to put his car in Manhattan, didn’t really need it there, and he couldn’t possibly keep it in storage in the District anymore. Storing it was frightfully expensive, and seeing as how Lacey was minus a car since losing her beloved Z, he would make her a sweet deal on his precious yellow Volkswagen Beetle that he adored, with the FLORES vanity plates and the yellow silk rose in the dashboard vase. He wanted to make sure it would go to someone who would love it. Lacey was too stunned to speak, but finally she said she would think about it and call him back.

Then Brooke called. It seemed that her law firm was unexpectedly in possession of a number of properties from a client who didn’t have the cash to pay his legal fees. Now they wanted to dump the barter and were willing to take a loss for a quick sale. Barton, Barton, & Barton was looking for a new home for a brand-new, arrest-me-red Nissan 350Z, unfortunately
not
vintage, Brooke noted, and it certainly wouldn’t blend into the background like a proper Washingtonian’s car. But she assured Lacey that the title was clean, as was the car, and she would have first dibs on it at a greatly reduced price. Lacey drew a deep breath and said they’d talk over drinks later.

Finally, Detective Broadway Lamont called to tell her she wouldn’t be seeing what remained of her old Z for quite a while. Forensics had linked it to Amanda’s murder; her car was now trial evidence. He suggested that she check into the D.C. police auction of the current confiscated and impounded vehicles. They were a good deal, some primo big-bucks drug-dealer cars, he said, fresh D.C. titles, and locksmiths were standing by. Lamont could show her around personally. “Just bring cash.”

“Oh, that’s sweet, Detective. Just what I had in mind, some drug lord’s land yacht,” she said. “Have they all been checked for bodies in the trunk?”

He laughed. “No telling. You pays your money, you takes your chances. Might be a little bonus for you.”

Lacey thanked him for his concern. She said she would call him back. Finally, she had missed a call from her psychic friend, Marie Largesse, who left one of her cryptic messages.

“Lacey,
cher,
y’all are just never around when I call, are you? You’d think I’d know, being psychic and all. Thought you should know, dear, that nasty little jinx you had stuck on you? That dark cloud, with all that thunder and lightning? All gone. Poof. Whatever you did, it did the trick. I’m getting the all-clear on your astral-vibration frequency, and I’m seeing blue skies headed your way,
cher.
Now you call me, you hear? I want to know your secret. ’Bye now.”

“Lacey?” Her mother’s voice brought her back to the present, Tuesday morning. They were at Reagan National Airport, and Lacey was walking her mother and sister to the security gate. “We’d stay longer, but it’s just that I always host the big Halloween get-together for all the neighbors.”

“No problem. Just be sure to serve Mrs. Dorfendraper an extra helping of gossip along with her doughnuts and cider.”

“Oh, I don’t plan to brag,” Rose said seriously, even though she had carefully packed a dozen copies of
The Eye Street Observer
with Trujillo’s front-page story on the fabulous Smithsonian women and their killer catch.

“I
do
plan on bragging,” Cherise said. “Are you sure the police won’t give us a copy of the videotape? You know, just the part where we hammered him and laid him low?”

“Not in time for the party, I’m afraid,” Lacey said.

“Well, I want a copy as soon as you get one. Okay, Lace?”

“You bet. VHS or DVD?”

“You know,” Rose said, “there’s so much we didn’t get to do on this trip.”

“We’ll come back soon,” Cherise promised. “Now that you have trundle beds.”

“Better practice your cheers, then,” Lacey said. “I may need the help.”

“I could always teach you my routines,” Cherise offered. “How are your high kicks?”

Lacey wanted to laugh, but her sister was serious. “I’ll keep that in mind.” Lacey gave her a quick hug, and Cherise strutted toward the metal detectors, her sleek new blond haircut swinging confidently.

Rose gave Lacey a big hug and a kiss. “Now remember, I can come anytime you need me if you run into anyone like that crazy Tate Penfield or Caleb Something or whatever his name is again.”

“Mom, I do not make a habit of this sort of thing.”

“Of course not, dear. I’ll call you the minute we get home.”

Lacey watched as they put their luggage on the conveyor belt and Cherise flirted with the TSA guards. And she watched as they turned around and waved. She waved back and smiled.

She was exhausted. The scent of heavily caffeinated coffee was calling to her. She was dead tired, and she felt as if her limbs would fall to the floor. That is, until she was jolted wide-awake by the sight of Vic Donovan walking through the terminal with Montana McCandless Donovan Schmidt at his side. They were headed to the security gate where Lacey had just left her mother and sister.
Yeah, he’s been busy with work,
she thought.
With that piece of work.

Lacey didn’t think they had seen her, so she ducked into a bookstore, where she observed them from behind a tall rack of best sellers. Her heart skipped a beat. She was, quite frankly, fed up with this particular involuntary response of hers whenever she saw Vic Donovan, no matter what he was up to. Lacey felt devastated to see them together, but she couldn’t tear her eyes off them. She had to see their good-bye.

Vic looked just as tired as Lacey felt. He made an easy target when Montana lunged at him, throwing both arms around his neck. It looked as if she were hanging on for dear life and giving him mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. Lacey was in agony, and only her pride kept her from crying; or maybe it was the white-hot fury she felt. She saw Vic break free from Montana, taking both her arms gently from around his neck. He then spun her around and gave her a little shove toward security and beyond.
Oh hell! Was that the big kiss-off—or the big kiss-on?
Lacey wondered.
I could just ask him—No, I can’t.

Montana must be on the same Frontier flight to Denver as her mother and sister, Lacey realized, and she hoped the blond barracuda wouldn’t be seated anywhere near them.
On the other hand, never underestimate a Smithsonian woman.
They could certainly take care of themselves.

Vic put his shades on and strode back down the terminal. Even weary, he looked so handsome with his broad shoulders, narrow hips, faded jeans, and leather jacket. She thought he would walk on by, but he stopped. He’d spotted her.

“Lacey! What are you doing here? You following me?”

“You should be so lucky. I just put my mother and sister on that plane. I don’t have to ask you what you were doing.”

“Me? I was working all weekend. You’re the one who was getting into trouble.”

“Working?! Working on what, Montana’s self-esteem problem? And don’t change the subject. You’ve been with Montana most of the weekend. Or was it every second of the weekend? The weekend you were supposed to spend with me.”

He let out an exasperated sigh. “You know it isn’t like that. And we have got to talk about the other night at the warehouse too. It wasn’t exactly easy on my heart, seeing you there with a killer trussed up on the floor. You and the Amazons.” Lacey and Vic hadn’t had any more time together that night, after he made sure she was safe. Detective Broadway Lamont and the D.C. police took over, and then Rose took custody of her adult daughters like the mother hen she was, insisting there would be time for explanations later, but now they all needed their beauty sleep.

“I saw you kiss Montana good-bye.”

“She kissed me, Lacey. I didn’t kiss her. There’s a difference; you told me that once.”

“She kissed you? You were just an innocent victim? You could have fooled me.”

“Could I? Really, Lacey? You want to see what a real kiss is like?”

“As a matter of fact, I do.” She stood her ground and stared him down.

“Well, then, madam, allow me.” Vic swept her into his arms, bent her over slightly, and kissed her till her toes curled. She heard appreciative laughter from the coffee shop across the way, but she didn’t care.

It was a good thing they were at the airport, where kissing in public was no big deal. This kiss was definitely different from the kiss she had witnessed between Vic and Montana. This kiss was
on.
Lacey responded, circling her arms around him. She felt a little dizzy. Finally he released her.

“Now
that
was a real kiss,” he announced with a swagger. “What do you think?”

“I don’t know, cowboy,” Lacey said with a slow smile. “You’d better show me that again.”