Designer Knockoff (27 page)

Read Designer Knockoff Online

Authors: Ellen Byerrum

Tags: #Mystery

BOOK: Designer Knockoff
9.32Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
The merest twist of silk, an expensive Bentley’s scarf placed on hold but never purchased, could send investigators down an entirely different path in the mysterious death of Washington intern Esme Fairchild. The multicolored silk scarf was just something to finish her look for the appropriations hearing the next day. She wanted to impress the Bentleys, fashion’s royalty. But this decision may have lead to a fatal conclusion. Did the scarf bring her to Bentley’s Boutique during an armed robbery last week?
With a nod to FBI Agent Gary Braddock’s subtle scoffing at her, she thought she might have something for her Friday column, “No Such Thing as a Fashion Clue,” but she was spent. Not so with Tony, who was still energetic. In fact, he was positively high.
“What do you say we go out for a drink and celebrate this story? It’s not often that we scoop the world like that.” He pinched a wilting blossom from Lacey’s bouquet.
“I’ll take a rain check, okay? I’m fried.”
“I’m buying.”
“I’ll miss my golden opportunity to see you pick up a check.” She didn’t tell him she wanted to be at home watching her answering machine, waiting for a call from Vic—a call that would probably never come.
Mac strolled over. “Nice teamwork on that story. Take the afternoon off.”
It was way past time to go home. “Very funny, Mac.”
When Lacey stepped off the elevator she saw someone dressed in blue work clothes and a blue baseball cap down at the end of her hallway, trying to get into her apartment.
“Hey, what’s going on?” she called from the center hall, not wanting to get too close until she knew what he was up to.
He didn’t look at her, but simply said, “Maintenance. Must have the wrong key.” He turned and walked down the hall toward her, keeping his head down. “No problem, I’ll be back.”
“Wait a minute,” she said as he pushed open the door to the stairs exit that was next to the elevators. “It’s after hours. What do you want in my apartment?” She moved after him, and held the exit door open. “Hey—who the hell are you?” She reached out for his arm to stop him, but he jerked away and slammed her into the wall, hitting her shoulder.
His rapid steps downward echoed back. Her heart was beating fast. Everything about this was wrong. She realized his shirt didn’t have a name tag like those of the rest of the staff. She looked behind her as she walked back to her apartment to make sure he was gone. Then she noticed the fresh scratches in the paint on her door and the doorjamb. He didn’t have a key; he had a screwdriver or a pry bar.
Way to go, slick.
Once inside, she slipped on the chain and called the management office’s emergency number just to make sure. The woman said there was no maintenance call logged and suggested that if Lacey was concerned she should call the police.
So much for caring and concerned building management.
She grabbed an old baseball bat from her closet and propped it by the door, just in case her visitor came back. She made a brief report to the Alexandria police officer who came to check out her call, but she didn’t feel any safer. Her description of the guy was inadequate, especially for a reporter. She thought about calling Brooke or Stella to keep her company, but she couldn’t face their interrogation, which would be much more intense than the police. She thought about the Smith & Wesson that Vic had insisted she borrow last spring, but she had given it back before he returned to Colorado. She couldn’t sleep that night. She had no Vic, no gun, and no idea what was going on.
I have nothing of value—except a trunk full of an old woman’s memories.
Chapter 18
“Genius. Am I a genius or what?” Stella paused to let Lacey appreciate her vast intelligence during Wednesday morning’s vintage hair experiment. “I put you together with Miguel Flores and voilà! You almost have the whole thing wrapped up. In a Bentley’s scarf, no less.” She stood behind the salon chair, looking at Lacey in the mirror, contemplating today’s hairstyle: Look Number Three. It was the seventeenth of September; the gala was scheduled for the twenty-third. Stella was soon putting hot rollers in, even though Lacey said they weren’t period. It was to give her “extra fullness.”
“Did you see my story?”
The Eye
played up its role in the discovery of the Bentley’s scarf the next morning and its possible connection to Esme’s possible last moments. The story was also all over the television stations and radio. But the other newspapers didn’t have it. They would have to play catch-up the following day and counter with some other aspect of the case. Mac played it above the fold on the front page, double-bylined by Smithsonian and Trujillo.
“Yeah, there’s a link on DeadFed dot com.”
Damon Newhouse strikes again.
“You could buy a paper, you know. One of the last great bargains in this country.”
“Oh, I plan to. For my scrapbook, and I’ll buy one for the salon, too.”
“That’s seventy cents we can count on, and by the way, I don’t almost have the whole thing wrapped up.”
Stella smacked her on the head with a comb. “Listen to her. You said the same thing the whole time you were looking into Angie’s death.”
“I was just doing my job. And that hurt.” Lacey rubbed the spot.
“I’m just doing my job too.” Stella swooped up Lacey’s hair, which reached her shoulders, twisting it around for inspiration. “So who killed Esme Fairchild?”
“I don’t know.”And who tried to break into my apartment last night?
Lacey felt on edge. She’d even placed a match in her doorjamb so that if it was out of place later, she would know someone had gotten in, but she didn’t feel like sharing that with Stella.
“C’mon, Lacey, use your imagination,” Stella said. “I think it’s the senator guy. That’s what most of my clients think. Not that he did it himself, but that he made it happen, you know. His goons. Henchmen, thugs, and goons.”
“Or it could have something to do with the robbery at Bentley’s.”
“True. You know what they say. This is a small town; everything is connected. Like some kind of conspiracy.”
“Stella, you have to stop reading that DeadFed Web site.”
“Nah, it gives me a knowledge edge.” She dropped Lacey’s hair. “I’m glad you’re wearing that green suit today.” It was a very fitted forest-green suit with covered buttons. Lacey wore it with a rose pin at the throat. “I have just the thing,” Stella said, whipping out a small piece of mesh material trimmed in green velvet.
“A snood? Where’d you find that?”
Oh, dear, there will be merriment today at
The Eye. Lacey examained it carefully. It looked new.
“I was thinking of Lana Turner in
The Postman Always Rings Twice.”
“She wore a turban, not a snood. Hedy Lamarr wore a snood in some movie.”
“Whatever, but isn’t it cute? I kind of made it myself, knowing how you like green. Totally radical, huh? I’d wear one myself if my hair wasn’t so short.” Stella ran her hand through her short spiky ends and blew a kiss at her reflection in preparation for concentrating on today’s masterpiece. She parted Lacey’s hair in the middle again, caught the sides up with combs, and fitted the snood over Lacey’s lightly highlighted locks. Stella also insisted on putting the finishing touches on Lacey’s makeup and surveyed her work in the mirror.
“Damn, I’m good. What do you think?”
Not being a veteran snood wearer, Lacey wasn’t quite sure what she thought. It was unusual, efficient, pretty. “I like it, but—”
“But what?”
“What happens when I go outside wearing this?”
“That’s your problem, kiddo.” Stella reached for her first Coke of the day. “But you shouldn’t care; you look dangerous.”
“Dangerous, huh? In that case, look out, world; here I come, snood and all. Thanks, Stella. By the way, give me a receipt and I’ll have the paper pay for this. Mac’s insisting on taking my picture every day. He wants to do a feature on these styles for the gala.”
“Oh, my God, and you didn’t tell me! Lacey! What’s wrong with you?”
“I must have forgotten. Imagine that.”
“Imagine—My work in
The Eye!
Do you want my picture too?” She was so excited, Lacey didn’t have the heart to say no.
“I’ll ask Mac.” She squared her shoulders and left the salon, wary of strange looks. But her fears were unfounded. The glorious morning compelled her to walk to the office. She strolled through Dupont Circle, down Connecticut, left on K Street, and through Farragut Square. Lacey’s fitted late Forties suit and matching snood didn’t log one look. Not one that she noticed, anyway. It was D.C., after all.
However, once she hit the office, the snood was an object of much interest. Hansen was again waiting at her desk, ready to snap away. “I’m getting to dig this high-fashion biz,” he said. “I’m ready for a gig at
Vogue.
But we need a different background for this one.”
“Yeah, something very ‘girl reporter.’ ” Tony Trujillo jumped up from Felicity’s desk, where he had no doubt been rummaging, in hopes that her diet was over.
“Morning, Tony. Didn’t see you there. Pawing through somebody else’s desk?”
“Not at all. I’m here to see you. I wouldn’t miss the wacky ’do of the day.”
“You don’t like it?”
Trujillo circled around her. “Yeah, I like it; it’s like some old newsreel. ‘Girl Reporter Snags Exclusive for
Daily Planet.’
But what I really want to know is, when are you going to come in with the stack of bananas on your head?”
Lacey grabbed a pencil from her desk and launched it at him, only to have it bounce off his chest. “You’re wearing out your welcome, Lizard Boots.” She didn’t wait for a comment. She logged in and checked her voice mail. There were only three: Brooke, of course, was first at six forty-five A.M., congratulating her on yet another Esme story, but complaining that she hadn’t been alerted first. The second was from Aaron Bentley.
“I trust you’ve exhausted all the possibilities for writing unpleasant stories about the Bentley family. Really, this must stop or our attorneys shall lodge a complaint against your newspaper.”
One more message was from someone she didn’t know, someone with a raspy voice. “Reporters can disappear too, you know. Knock off the Fairchild stories.”
Lacey instantly thought about the phony maintenance man and her sore shoulder and held her breath expecting to hear more, but was thankful there wasn’t any. She’d had threats before. It was never pleasant, but she sure as hell wasn’t going to back off of her story.
The lanky photographer stretched his long legs and grinned. “Let’s try it outside, Lacey. The square’s got nice scenery.” Hansen stood up, grabbed his bag of lenses, and slung it over his shoulder. Lacey checked her makeup in a small mirror. “Bring the mirror; I like it. It’s classic,” Hansen said.
“Classic,” Trujillo echoed as he followed them out. Mac merely pulled his nose out of
The New York Times
and grunted as they trooped past his window.
Lacey endured yet another photo shoot, with Trujillo offering suggestions and several tourists stopping to observe. After it was finished, all she wanted was a quiet day. She was cleaning off her desk when Hugh Bentley called. “You’re too late,” she said. “Aaron already called to say he hoped I was through writing about the Bentleys.”
“Let’s not be too hasty. Aaron is always so ... abrupt. There might be something you could write that we could all agree is a good story.” He paused. Lacey waited. “I wanted you to be the first to know: Bentley’s will provide complementary tickets to the gala for Wilhelmina Tremain and her daughter, Annette.”
“That’s very generous, Hugh.”
Trying to throw me off a track I haven’t found yet?
“That’s not all. Bentley’s will also provide them with gowns and a day of beauty before the event.”
“That’s a story, all right. Sort of a Cinderella story.” She could see the possibilities, and she was a total sucker for makeovers and magic moments. No matter what Hugh’s motivation was.
“Your story about Gloria Adams brought back some sad memories. And reading about her family made me think about how they might feel, even after all these years.”
He’s really pouring it on,
Lacey thought. “I thought they might like to have a taste of glamour. The kind that Gloria craved.”
“And help turn the negative publicity around.”
“Exactly. Bentley’s can provide a little sparkle to their lives, at least for one night. You made them seem terribly woebegone.”
Oh, good, now it’s my fault.
She opened the newspaper on her desk. “Sorry, that wasn’t my intent.”
“Think about what you’ve written. A woman disappears, things go bump in the night, and evil walks the earth. Her family suffers forever after. It has mythic qualities. Mythmaking is tricky business, Lacey.”
You should
know, she thought.
“Nevertheless ...”
She realized she hadn’t had enough coffee that morning and started looking for her coffee cup, rummaging through papers, when she saw it sitting on Felicity’s desk. She wondered what on earth the woman was up to. “But, Hugh, why call me?”

Other books

Free Radical by Shamus Young
Six Sagas of Adventure by Ben Waggoner (trans)
Samantha James by The Secret Passion of Simon Blackwell
The Second Lie by Tara Taylor Quinn
Watching You by Michael Robotham
The Moonstone Castle Mystery by Carolyn G. Keene