Designer Knockoff (25 page)
Hansen set the paper back down, open to Trujillo’s companion piece, “Ten Who Never Came Home.” It featured
The Eye’s
list of the top ten unsolved murders of young women who had disappeared in Washington. Their photos showed they were as diverse a lot as Washington was becoming: black, white, Asian, Hispanic. They were last seen at a bar, at a bus stop, going out to jog, picking up the mail, leaving the office, meeting a friend. Some of their bodies had been found—in the Potomac, in Rock Creek Park, in an abandoned building in Southeast D.C.; some had never been found and their murdered status was only presumed. But they had a sad sameness: young, attractive, ambitious, female, missing.
The Eye’s
list of the top ten unsolved murders of young women who had disappeared in Washington. Their photos showed they were as diverse a lot as Washington was becoming: black, white, Asian, Hispanic. They were last seen at a bar, at a bus stop, going out to jog, picking up the mail, leaving the office, meeting a friend. Some of their bodies had been found—in the Potomac, in Rock Creek Park, in an abandoned building in Southeast D.C.; some had never been found and their murdered status was only presumed. But they had a sad sameness: young, attractive, ambitious, female, missing.
“Reading this stuff you’d think the District of Columbia is not a safe place to live,” Hansen said.
“No kidding. Remember when Mayor Marion Barry said that ‘except for the killings’ D.C. had a really low crime rate? And we haven’t even mentioned the ones who weren’t quite so young or pretty or well-off. I guess the pretty ones make better copy.”
“Feeling upbeat this morning?”
“I’m fine.” Stella had scolded her for arriving at the salon with puffy eyes and made her sit with wet tea bags on her eyelids for twenty minutes. Lacey looked refreshed, but she didn’t feel it. “I only had one martini.”
“Must have been a double. Look alive, Lacey, Mac is interested in this little project for some reason.” Hansen readied his Nikons.
“The humiliation aspect, no doubt.” She made a face at him.
“You’ll have to do better than that.”
She tried a sultry look, but she felt her eyes go wide when Felicity walked over to her desk. Felicity’s long auburn hair was parted on the side in a wild profusion of pin curls, an exaggerated approximation of a Forties hairstyle.
Is she mocking me? Along with the rest of the world?
But she found no conscious irony in what Felicity wore: another one of her flowered prairie dresses that tied in the back.
Is she mocking me? Along with the rest of the world?
But she found no conscious irony in what Felicity wore: another one of her flowered prairie dresses that tied in the back.
“Hey, wide-eyed innocence. I like that,” Hansen said. “Give me more angles like that.” He took some photos. He even got busy moving Lacey’s flowers around the desk for a more interesting background. The second photo session was much less painful, she decided. As soon as he left her in peace for a moment to reload and change lenses, Lacey picked up the phone and punched in the number for her voice mail and listened.
“Lacey, I knew there was some kind of conspiracy with that appropriations bill! You could have told me about this last night.” It was Brooke, of course. The call was logged at five twenty-five A.M. “Boy, can you keep a secret! I should have made you drink that second martini. Wait till you see DeadFed. But I don’t know what to make of the Bentley connection. Call me.”
Lacey logged on to her computer while listening to a call from Damon Newhouse expressing his faith in her and hoping for more developments. DeadFed had picked up the story, “Dead Intern Linked to Approps Bill Scandal.”
In the meantime, Peter Johnson cruised past her desk, crumpled the front page, threw it at her, and walked on by without saying a word. She opened it up and was amazed to see she shared a byline with Trujillo and the insufferable Johnson. Mac had decided to mix in the rumors about Esme’s possible involvement with the mystery money and Tony’s reporting on the discovery of her body and asked Peter to include the Hill angle. Lacey recrumpled it and threw it at Johnson’s head. Peter was steamed. He turned on his heel. “I told you to stay off my beat.”
“I’m not on your beat. And I’m not exactly thrilled to have my name associated with you either.” Hansen had reloaded his camera and was happily snapping pictures of their angry exchange. At the sound, they turned toward him with their mouths open. He shot another frame.
Mac showed up just in time for the tail end of the photo shoot. “Children, children, we’re all supposed to get along. Now play nice.” Johnson huffed away. Hansen was still shooting. He was trying to sneak in a forbidden photograph of her right profile.
“Hansen, either shoot me straight on or from the left side or you’ll be changing lenses with a broken arm.”
“What is your problem, Lacey? You look good from any angle.”
“Men!” The next thing, he’ll be crawling on the floor for an up-the-nostrils shot.
“It’s not exactly
Glamour
or Vogue, you know.”
Glamour
or Vogue, you know.”
“Believe me, I know. Sorry. I hope I don’t look as grumpy as I feel.”
Mac stepped in. “Thanks, Hansen. I think we’ve got enough. This might be a fun feature, kids, if nobody kills each other before it comes out and we have to use it for an obit.” He gave her a meaningful look, a lift of his expressive brows, and moved on to other editorial duties.
The only cure for the aftereffects of Lacey’s martini was spicy Mexican food, so she called Miguel, who was back from New York, and proposed an early lunch. The restaurant was Salvadoran-Mexican and one of his favorites, “Though I don’t normally eat it for breakfast.” He sat across from her. The decor was unprepossessing, but the food was delicious.
“It’s lunch. It’s eleven-thirty, ” she protested, and ordered a platter of cheese enchiladas.
“Like I said, breakfast.” He ordered tortillas, butter, and strong coffee. “I’m not usually up before the crack of noon. I love today’s look, by the way, you ingenue you. And your look deserves a little peek at something special.”
He pulled a wrapped package from a sleek black Bentley’s bag and set it down. It was covered in white paper, wrapped in string. Lacey waited expectantly. Miguel untied the string slowly, pulled back the white paper and then several layers of pink tissue paper to reveal his prize—the beaded midriff for the Gloria Adams gown. Lacey was clearly expected to gasp with pleasure, and she did. He held it up for her, the heavenly blue shade of silk embroidered with shooting stars, a pattern that would also be beaded on shoulder inserts.
Gloria Adams had stipulated the beading and had sketched several patterns to pick from. Miguel chose the shooting stars because Gloria, he said, was “a falling star.”
“It’s perfect.” Lacey reached out for it, but Miguel held it away from her.
“Don’t touch it; you have greasy fingers.”
“You’re awfully persnickety.”
“I have not yet begun to persnicket. This is a work of art—a tribute to a poor dead woman who was robbed of her life’s work.”
“Allegedly.”
“Allegedly, smegedly. You know it’s true.”
“But how do we know it’s true?”
“I worked for Bentley’s for five years. I know Bentley. This dress has all the classic marks of his early lines. And it has something more—genius. That unknowable quality that seemed to disappear from his later work. Now we know why. Gloria Adams was the original. Hugh Bentley was the copy. There, I said it.” He also pulled Lacey’s story from his coat pocket and he gazed at Gloria’s photo and sighed deeply. “Nice work, Lacey. She could have been a star. But instead we’ll use you. I’d love to see Hugh Bentley’s face when he sees you wearing the Adams dress. That’s what you’ve been thinking all along, isn’t it?”
“Maybe that’s what he’s afraid of—that I’ll pull a rabbit out of a hat.”
“Or a skeleton from a closet?”
“The Bentleys are very careful with their skeletons, if not their reputations.”
“Too bad.” Miguel folded the material carefully and sealed it in a plastic bag. “I’ve been trying to reconstruct it all, the fateful moments that led to my untimely demise as a loyal Bentley’s employee. Why Bentley’s? Why Monday? The bandits concentrated on old-stock, pricey items that weren’t selling, items that were heavily insured. It doesn’t make sense.”
“You think the robbery was a setup? But why? The Bentleys were in town testifying before Congress. It’s a huge embarrassment.”
Miguel thought about it. “Miscalculation?”
Lacey tried to concentrate on her enchiladas. There was something about hot, spicy enchiladas covered in melting cheese that was curing her martini-induced headache. “Okay, the Bentleys planned their own robbery? For the insurance?”
He shrugged. “A mere question, but a good one.” He savored his coffee and warm tortillas and butter before he suddenly slammed down his mug. “Oh, my God, I just remembered something. We have to get to Bentley’s.”
“But you’ve been banned.”
“Oh, please. Do you think I’m afraid of big, bad Aaron Bentley? He’s not there. Believe me, I am informed of his every move by my former compatriots in the slave shop. Let’s go.”
“I’m eating.”
He paid no attention, instead flagging the cute waiter.
“Hola, hombre,
could you wrap that up for her?” Miguel whipped out his handy cell phone and pressed one button. “Hey, doll, it’s Miguel; you haven’t messed with the storage drawer, have you?” He seemed satisfied with the answer and nodded to Lacey. “I’m coming right over. Touch nothing.”
“Hola, hombre,
could you wrap that up for her?” Miguel whipped out his handy cell phone and pressed one button. “Hey, doll, it’s Miguel; you haven’t messed with the storage drawer, have you?” He seemed satisfied with the answer and nodded to Lacey. “I’m coming right over. Touch nothing.”
The efficient waiter grabbed Lacey’s platter in mid bite. She had just been beginning to feel better when she saw her plate of enchiladas sail away.
“You can eat it later. Besides, you shouldn’t be eating anything before the gala. Not a bite. Have you been doing those ab exercises?”
“I’m starving. What is so important that we have to leave?”
“A scoop. A scoop for my favorite fashion reporter.” He refused to tell her what the fuss was about on the way over to Bentley’s Boutique in his blue VW Beetle convertible. His D.C. vanity plate read FLORES. He didn’t believe in anonymity. Miguel knew so many shortcuts through the city, and he drove so fast that she was queasy by the time they arrived. She was glad her enchiladas were in a Styrofoam box, rather than in her stomach.
At the front door, a woman dressed in a sleek black Bentley’s pantsuit threw herself at the handsome Latino. “Miguel, darling, we’ve missed you. Come in; the coast is clear.”
“Hug, hug, kiss kiss. Naomi, where’s Kika?”
“Still on leave. I don’t know that she’ll be back; she was pretty freaked out.”
Lacey felt a little odd walking through the door for the first time. She could just imagine what Aunt Mimi would say. In the
lion’s den now?
Bentley’s Boutique was a bright, open space with sparkling crystal fixtures and mirrors everywhere. This was the temple of couture where Hugh had invited her to select any two gowns in exchange for Aunt Mimi’s suit. Her eyes roamed hungrily over the racks of beautiful suits and dresses. The clothes were striking, they were fabulously made, but they were not enough to make her change her mind.
lion’s den now?
Bentley’s Boutique was a bright, open space with sparkling crystal fixtures and mirrors everywhere. This was the temple of couture where Hugh had invited her to select any two gowns in exchange for Aunt Mimi’s suit. Her eyes roamed hungrily over the racks of beautiful suits and dresses. The clothes were striking, they were fabulously made, but they were not enough to make her change her mind.
“Naomi, this is the notorious Lacey Smithsonian. ‘Crimes of Fashion,’ you know.”
The woman was dark and exotic-looking, with an extremely short haircut glued down sleekly to her shapely head. “Of course. I loved your story on El Florito here.” Naomi smiled warmly, although she had that natural unconscious haughtiness that the Bentley’s staff was known for.
“No one’s touched the drawer?” Miguel demanded.
“Are you kidding? Inventory is months away.”
Lacey was tiring of this little game. “What’s with the drawer?”
He put his arm around her shoulder and steered her toward a small storage room in the back of the store. “It’s our deep, dark secret compartment, where things get tossed that we have no idea what to do with, including the occasional item that people ask us to hold for longer than the prescribed two days. It’s a total mess, but the important part is it generally is cleaned out only before inventory.”
“If then,” Naomi said. “What are you up to, Miguel?”
Miguel looked over her shoulder. “You have a customer, dear.” He turned Naomi around and gave her a gentle shove toward her customer service duties, then turned to Lacey with a smug look on his face. “Follow me.”
He led her through an arch. On the right were dressing rooms. On the left was the storage room, which was stocked with shelves and rolling racks of clothing hung in plastic bags. Shoes and accessories occupied another aisle, at the end of which was a huge old dresser from a previous generation of store décor. Now scarred with years of use, it served as a makeshift desk. On the top were stock tickets and hold tags, pencils and pens. Taped to the mirror were various official announcements. ALL SALES ASSOCIATES MUST SIGN OUT FOR LUNCH, THEN SIGN BACK IN. BREAKS ARE TWENTY MINUTES LONG, NOT THIRTY! ACCESSORIZE!
Miguel opened the bottom drawer, moved socks, boxes, and wrapped items, and finally pulled out a long, thin, shiny black box with
Bentley’s
written across the top in gold script, with a hold tag taped to it. He stood up and presented it to Lacey.
Bentley’s
written across the top in gold script, with a hold tag taped to it. He stood up and presented it to Lacey.
“Behold Exhibit A:
Hold for Esme Fairchild. Will be in at ten Monday morning, September eighth.
There’s a phone number with it.”
Hold for Esme Fairchild. Will be in at ten Monday morning, September eighth.
There’s a phone number with it.”
“The eighth?” Lacey said. That had been the day before the hearing. The day of the robbery, the day Esme disappeared. “She was picking this up on the eighth?”
“She was supposed to be here right when it happened. Voilà! I give you the scoop.”
Did Esme somehow get caught up in the robbery? Or did she never make it here?
Either way it was a scoop. “What can I say?”
Either way it was a scoop. “What can I say?”
“Say, ‘thank you, Fairy Godmother.’ ”
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