Hostile Makeover (7 page)

They were the kind of dresses that
The Washington Post
fashion editor would probably lament as being “pretty enough” and then muse somberly whether it was “enough to be pretty.” As far as Lacey was concerned, Washington fashion could always use a little prettying up. The city itself, she reflected, with its malls and monuments, was always stunning, although choked with traffic and burdened with its odd mix of tourists, lobbyists, lawyers, bureaucrats, wonks, and weirdos.

The question was, Would women in Washington buy them? It did seem that a small conspiracy of color had recently taken hold of the retailers. Everywhere display windows featured pink and blue and yellow, as if to slap back at the troubles pressing in on the nation. Perhaps even in Washington women craved clear blue skies, the rosy dawn of optimism, blazing yellow sunshine, and Code Green days. And a few brave men had even been sighted wearing pink preppy shirts.

Occasionally Lacey sighted one of these color rebels. Just the day before, there was a young blonde on the Metro wearing a black coat and shocking-pink Wellingtons, even though it wasn’t raining. But maybe she was just a tourist from California, the land of neon.

Lacey made her way back to the staging area for the interviews, where pale curtains hung behind a semicircular stage. Giant photos of the beautiful Amanda framed the space. Angular modern gray chairs, ugly and painful, were set next to a clear Lucite cube. She sat down gingerly.
Perhaps designed to keep the interviews short,
she thought. Lacey was rummaging through her bag for her trusty reporter tools when she heard a voice behind her.

“Another scribe waiting for Amanda?”

She glanced up at possibly the most handsome man she had ever seen. “Lacey Smithsonian,
Eye Street Observer,
” she said, offering her hand.

“Hi, I’m Tate Penfield.” He had glossy black hair and a beautifully sculpted chin and full lips. Lacey estimated his age at about thirty. A loud crash came from behind the stage. The sound of breaking glass made her jump. Penfield smiled. “Another mirror bites the dust.”

“Do I need a bulletproof vest for this interview?”

“Only if it comes from Amanda’s collection. Don’t worry, it was probably an accident.”

Lacey noticed that Penfield was burdened with cameras and photo equipment.

“You’re here to take photos of Amanda?”

“Yeah.” He mounted a video camera on a tripod and set down a large bag of cameras and lenses. “Some stills, and also I’m filming a documentary on Amanda. Her life, her startling transformation, her fabulous career, that sort of thing. I’m always shooting extra footage.”

“You’ve been around her awhile then?”

“On this project, about six months.”

“Sounds like a long time.” Miguel had told her that Amanda went through people like tissues.

“Not for a documentary.” Penfield seemed rather distracted, trying to be polite and concentrate on his work at the same time. It gave her a chance to take another look. He wore blue jeans, Top-Siders without socks, and a well-worn fishermen’s knit sweater that was fraying at the sleeves, which were pushed up his arms. Somehow it looked perfect on him. If he had dressed more slickly he would have come across as a self-obsessed metrosexual. This way he looked comfortably male, even if absurdly handsome.

“I like your sweater. Looks well loved.”

“Thanks.” He stroked the sweater. “It’s a sentimental favorite.”

“So, a documentary. You’re including Amanda’s life before the big makeover?”

“I’m doing my best, trying to get something that she hasn’t said before.” He moved the giant photos of Amanda out of his field of view.

“How long have you actually known Amanda?” Lacey asked.

“And lived to tell about it, you mean?” He laughed. “A couple of years. When Amanda decided to come back home to D.C. for this career move, I thought it would make a good story, documenting her rise to the top. It’s a celebrity society. Everyone wants to be immortalized.”

“And Amanda?”

“Especially Amanda.” He adjusted the tripod. “So I’ve been working on this project and making money doing photos for the Chrysalis ad campaign.”

“Then you know something about a stalker hanging around?”

He shrugged. “A guy’s been writing her love letters. They’ve turned dark. And they show up in odd places. She’s come unglued.”

“Is it the same guy who tried to get through the front door earlier?”

“Someone tried to get through the door?”

“Not on the list,” Lacey said.

“I didn’t hear about that. Sort of an occupational hazard for people like Amanda. But the letter writer is probably some geeky little guy who imagines he’s in love with her. My theory, he’s trying to snag something personal of hers, like a pair of her shoes to wear. To sell on eBay maybe, or put under his pillow at night and stroke.”

“Now you’re messing with me.” Lacey laughed.

“Better to let Amanda tell you.” Penfield focused on her through his Hasselblad camera. He clicked the shutter.

“Hey, don’t take my photograph. I’m a reporter, not a celebrity.” She remembered the whole battle with Mac over her photographs, then smiled ruefully. Penfield clicked again. “I didn’t say you could—” Again he snapped the shutter. “No more! I’m no model.”

“No. You’re not.” He clicked one more photo and stopped. “That’s a compliment, by the way. Beautifully real. I’m basically a freelance photojournalist. I prefer that, but this stuff pays better. For the moment.”

Lacey squirmed around on the horrible chair to see if the long-delayed Amanda was coming. She stood up and stretched. Penfield grinned and put down his camera.

“She’s usually late.”

“No problem, I love waiting for prima donnas.” Changing the subject back, she asked, “Have you sold anything to
The Eye
?”

“A few assignments.” He seemed pleased by her interest. “I share some studio space in the city with a couple of news photogs who freelance on the side. Some of us still like darkroom work. You know one of them. He took photos of your 1940s hairstyles.”

“So Hansen freelances? It’s really amazing what we don’t know about each other.”

Fawn approached with a tray of delicacies and a single mug of tea for Lacey, which she set down on the Lucite cube, Snazzy Jane’s version of a coffee table. Lacey perched again on the edge of the evil gray chair and sipped her tea, and just when she thought she could wait not one minute longer, the stage lights came on. The music changed to something ethereal and New Agey. Layers of gauzy curtains were suddenly backlit, revealing a multitude of pale-painted silk wings, like so many butterflies caught in a web. They parted and the magnificent Amanda Manville emerged, wearing one of her Chrysalis designs. It was showtime.

Chapter 5

Really, I don’t need the theatrics,
Lacey thought,
I’m a print reporter.
But she enjoyed them anyway.

Amanda stood still for a moment, as if posing for a horde of photographers, or perhaps it was merely for Tate Penfield. He was handsome enough, and he was the official documentarian. She smiled at Lacey, revealing the perfect porcelain veneers she had been given. As beautiful and polished as her photograph, Amanda had her hair sculpted in a short geometric cut, in a magnificent dark red mahogany color that emphasized her cheekbones. Her skin was as pale as a snowflake. And perhaps it was just a trick of the light, but her eyes looked very large and lavender. Tall and impossibly thin, Amanda wore a sleeveless panne velvet dress in imperial purple with gold accented braid. The material flowed over her torso, the waistline dipped low on her hips like a flapper’s, and the hemline flirted around her knees. At a towering six feet she didn’t need the four-inch height of her gold stiletto-heeled sandals, but she wore them anyway.

Her eyes grazed over Lacey and zeroed in on Penfield setting up another camera in the background. Her eyes went wide, her lips curled back, and she shrieked at him.

“Tate! What are you wearing?! Why on earth are you wearing that ratty old sweater?! Take that horrible thing off
now
!”

Lacey wasn’t ready for that entrance line.
I can give Miguel a new Amanda story! Screaming Psycho Diva, scene one.
Amanda’s screeching voice had a curiously flat, nasal tone to it that didn’t suit her exquisite looks.

“Chill out, Amanda,” Penfield said evenly, and went on maneuvering his lenses and props. “I’m just part of the furniture, remember?”

“It’s a disgrace, a total disgrace, and you’re a disgraceful excuse for—”

“Then don’t look at me. I like it.” He had a decisive tone in his voice, and Lacey wondered if that was the way to handle Amanda. The supermodel snorted with derision and turned away, scowling, from the handsome photographer. Then she took a deep breath and composed herself before gracefully taking a seat across from Lacey. She smiled coldly. Fawn scurried in with a mug of tea for Amanda and quickly scurried out. Amanda gave Lacey the once-over with her startling lavender eyes. Lacey met her gaze and hoped her great vintage suit would be her suit of armor against the Evil Queen.

“And what on earth are
you
wearing? Oh, please! Vintage?” Amanda sneered. “It
is
vintage, isn’t it? Is that what they’re wearing in Washington now?”

“No, it’s what
I
wear.”

“And you write about fashion? Really? For
The Eye
? ” Her tone was snotty diva to the max. Lacey would have to try to mimic it for Miguel.

“I write about style for real women.” Lacey smiled, revealing her own even white teeth, which were natural. “Sometimes fashion and style intersect. A happy but rare occasion.”

“Right.” Amanda touched her forehead like she was rubbing the pain away. “Never mind. You’re Lacey Smithsonian, right? The one who took on the Bentleys? Good, you’re the one I wanted. So let’s talk.” She carefully lifted her steaming mug, took a sip, spat it out, and yelled for the unfortunate Fawn. “Damn it, Fawn, that’s terrible! Where is that little bitch? She does this to me on purpose.”

“Does what?” Penfield asked in a very soothing tone of voice from behind his camera.

She whirled on him. “I ordered Earl Grey tea! This is green tea! It tastes like a mowed lawn. It’s a simple enough task; you would think any moron could do it.” Her voice reached an unpleasant range. Somewhere porpoises were squealing in pain. “But apparently she can’t. And what is she wearing? Burberry?! She’s supposed to be wearing something from my collection!”

Yvette Powers swiftly moved in, her heels clicking on the polished wood floors. “What is the trouble now, Mandy?”

“Don’t call me that.”

Yvette deliberately took a long, slow breath. “
Dearest
Amanda, do tell me what is the matter?”

“That little idiot brought me the wrong tea.”

“That’s hardly enough to make a federal case over.” Yvette stalked off and sent Fawn scurrying back with another cup of tea, presumably Earl Grey this time. Zoe crept back in and stood quivering, clearly upset.

“Amanda, honey, it’s okay. We are all a little tense.”

“What are you tense about, Zoe? It’s worse for me! I’m surrounded by incompetent zombies.” Amanda’s gaze settled on Lacey.

It’s going so well.
Lacey knew she shouldn’t be amused, but she was. Amanda was like one of those terrible thirteen-year-old girls who lived only to torment the less powerful. But Lacey had the power of the pen, in her case her favorite Waterman fountain pen, a green-enameled weapon mightier than the sword.
Well, at least mightier than Amanda’s stilettos.
Lacey remembered Mac’s favorite saying: “Never argue with people who buy paper by the ton and ink by the barrel.” She gave a little wave with her pen and smiled, and Amanda got the hint. She was immediately back on good behavior.

Amanda’s voice dropped an octave into a chummy intimacy. “I’m so sorry. It’s just been a terrible day; you’ll understand when I tell you,” she said, including Lacey in her little club of mean teens.

“We all have bad days,” Lacey agreed.
Kill anyone yet today?

Zoe absentmindedly reached down for one of the small sweets on the tray, which did not go unnoticed by her bone-thin sister. “Go ahead, Zoe, sweetie,” Amanda snarled. “What’s another ten pounds?”

Zoe dropped the treat and backed into a rack of clothing, looking as if she’d been slapped.

Miguel was right. The makeover had unleashed Amanda’s inner bitch.
Frankendiva. And she seemed so sweet on TV.
Lacey waved her green fountain pen again. Amanda paused.

“Let’s start over, shall we? Ms. Smithsonian, you’re the reporter who solved those murders. The hairstylist and the intern, what’s her name? Esme something?” Lacey shrugged.
Solved
seemed to her a pretty high-concept term for her involvement in those stories.

“I just put two and two together and got lucky.”

“Then you
are
the one who solved those murders, right?”

“My beat is fashion.” Lacey marveled at how she could say that now without cringing. “But sometimes I seem to get in the way of a bigger story.”

“I don’t want you here because of fashion, for God’s sake,” Amanda said with another pointed glare at Lacey’s beloved vintage suit. “I’m not even that interested in what you might have to say about my designs. Basically the collection will do fine without the help of your little newspaper. The celebrity media will see to that. I need your help for something else.”

“What?” Lacey cursed her curiosity. She’d like to stand up and walk out.
Maybe I should have spent more time talking to Miguel.

Amanda bellowed for her favorite target. “Fawn! Get me my bag!”

The girl scuttled out from where she was hiding, with a large leather tote bag. She thrust it at Amanda at arm’s length, not daring to get any closer.
Smart girl. Stay out of the slapping zone,
Lacey wanted to say. Amanda opened the tote and withdrew a folder. Perhaps a half dozen articles from
The Eye
fell out. They were stories Lacey had written about the murders she had been involved in solving, and documents copied from DeadFed dot com. Amanda held up a front page of
The Eye
bearing Lacey’s photograph.