Grave Apparel (51 page)

Lacey
rolled her
eyes.
“Defending me from what?”

“That editorial on Christmas sweaters? That it turns out your
Little
Miss
CrabbyNegativePerson
wrote?
I
knew
you
didn’t
write
that
snotty
thing.
You
can
do
snarky,
but
it’s
always
snarky
with style and soul, you
know?
This sweater thing
was
just plain mean, not
like
you at all,
except
when
you’re
neglect
ing your friends,
like
recently.
Do I
have
to
find
out
everything
that is going on in this
town
from DeadFed dot com?”

“That’s
not
news,
Stella,
it’s
science
fiction.”
Lacey
sniffed
her
coffee
and put it
down.
“And
it’s
gotten
worse.
It used to be just—”

“Like
I
said
to
my
three
o’clock
perm
yesterday,
Lacey

Smithsonian can be
snarky
and
smartalecky, but
she’s
not
that
lowdown
mean.”

“You
think I’m mean?”

“We’re
all a little mean.
Gives
us
character.”
Stella grinned and sipped her
coffee.
“Hey,
this
isn’t
bad.
Anyway,
as I
was
saying, if we weren’t a little mean sometimes, we wouldn’t
even
be breathing. But you
know
what I’m talking about.
Like
really mean,
like
this Cassandra person. What is her deal?”

Lacey
led the
way
back to her desk. Stella grabbed the Death Chair and wheeled it up close, tracing her scarlet
fingernails
on the
face
of the skull and crossbones. She plopped
down
on it. No mere Death Chair could spook Stella
Lake.

“What do you
want
to
know?”
Lacey
settled back
down.
“Tell
me about this weird little man in the alley who
got
away.
DeadFed
says
it’s
some
kind
of
conspiracy
against
the
freedom of the press or something. Or else
aliens.”

“Stella.
Please
tell
me
you
know
nearly
every
word
on
DeadFed is complete
fiction,
don’t
you?
Even
‘and’ and
‘the.’
” Stella laughed. “I’m surprised
you’d even
read it,
knowing
that
it’s
run by
Brooke’s
lunatic
boyfriend.”

“That’s
why
I’m
here.
For
the
truth.
And
I
wouldn’t
have
to
resort to coming
over
if you
kept
in touch
better.
I
want
you to come to the
salon.”

“I
don’t
need
anything
done right
now.”
Lacey
ruffled
her
hair.
“See? I’m using your
conditioner.
My hair is
drowning
in your
conditioner.”

It
was
Stella’s
turn to yank on
Lacey’s
hair with her prac ticed
eye.
She
was
a maniac about
conditioner.
“I’m not talking about your
hair.
Your
hair looks great, thanks to you
know
who. But you gotta come see the salon! The salon is decorated. The tree is up, the lightup menorah is so cute, and we
even
have
a
Kwanzaa
thingy,
whatever
it is.
We
are totally socially and po litically and holidazically
correct.”

“ ‘Holidazically’? And the menorah is a nice touch,
Stel.”
“I’m half and half, you
know.
Half
Jewish
and half Christian and all
fabulous,
so I get to celebrate
everything.
I
always
get lots of great presents, me and the
Girls.”
Stella
was
as
excited
as a kid.
“Have
you bought me a present yet,
Lacey?
I posted my wish list on my blog, in case you need ideas. I told you about my blog,
didn’t
I?”

Lacey
covered
her
eyes
with her hands.
“Wait
a minute, a blog?
You
have
a blog?”

“Duh! My daily
observations
and innermost thoughts!
It’s
Stellariffic.
I’ll
email you the link.
You’re
so last
century,
Lace. But about my present? No
prob.
We’ll
go shopping
together.
It’ll
be
awesome.”

“Stella,
every
time I go shopping with you, I spend
money.
Lots and lots of
money.
Too
much
money.
And
that’s
just on me, much less on
you.”

The
stylist
gave
her
a
wideeyed
look.
“And
this
is
a
prob
lem
why
exactly?”
Before
Lacey
could
explain
that yes, it
was
a problem,
Stella’s
cell phone rang. She dug it out of her purse. “Oh, jeez, Lace! Look at the
time.”
She pushed a
button
and tossed the phone back into her enormous black bag. She took a
final
gulp of the nasty
coffee.
“I gotta run,
but
I
want
to see you soon, at the salon.
We’ll
talk. And then
we’ll
shop.”

“I’ll
call, I
promise,”
Lacey
said.

“You’ll
tell
me
everything.
”
It
was
a
command,
not
a request.

Lacey
would
have
escorted her to the
elevator,
but
her
own
phone rang.

“Get the phone,
Lacey,
I
know
my
way
out, past the cute guy with the messy desk.
He’s
totally in
love
with the
Girls.”

“Go torture him
then.”

Stella
waved
and grabbed her coat on the run. “Call me!”

The phone call turned out to be a hangup from a number she
didn’t
recognize.
Funny
how
often that happened,
Lacey
thought. No one really
wanted
to talk with the
fashion
reporter,
they
just
wanted
to
leave
her messages.

“Lacey,
can
we
talk?”
This
voice
wasn’t
on
the
phone,
it
be
longed to
Felicity,
who rarely
spoke
to her
except
to tempt her with something
fattening.
She
was
wearing a
new
dark green Christmas sweater that featured round sequined ornaments with a pair of black slacks.
Lacey
was
glad to see that the Cassandra incident
hadn’t
diminished her innate spirit. She had crossed the aisle to
Lacey’s
desk and
was
offering
her a piece of hot chocolate pudding
cake
topped with peppermint pieces. “Here,
take
a fork
too.”

This
couldn’t
be good,
Lacey
thought.
Beware
of
Felicity
bearing
gifts.
And
she’s
baking
again!
But the rich aroma
filled

the air and her stomach
was
rumbling. She reached for the pud ding
cake
and hesitantly took the
offered
plastic fork.

“This smells
good.”

“It’s
for the Sunday food section.
‘A
peppermint twist on
holiday
fare.’
”
Felicity
was
evidently
trying
out
phrases
for
her
food
column.
“Or
maybe:
‘Hot,
chocolate,
and
comforting.
More than pudding. More than
cake.
Bake
yourself a pudding
cake.’
”

“Thanks,
Felicity.”
Lacey
took a bite.
“Delicious.”

Felicity
looked
as
if
she
needed
more
than
food
to
comfort
her.
“I
know
we’re
not
exactly
friends,”
she
began,
but
then
her
nerve
failed
her,
and
she
dashed
back
to
her
desk
for
her
own
piece
of
today’s
featured
dessert.
She
pulled
her
chair
over
to
Lacey’s
desk,
avoiding
the
Death
Chair,
and
nibbled
at
the
delicacy.

Lacey
took another bite. The peppermint twist melted in her mouth. It
was
amazingly good. But
would
it be good enough for
Vic’s
mother at Christmas?
Tough
call. This dessert had to be
presented
still
hot
from
the
oven,
not
made
the
day
before.
Lacey realized
she’d
lost track of what Felicity was
saying.
More
than
pudding,
more
than
cake, bake yourself
a—
“I
know
we’re
not
exactly
friends,
Lacey,
but,
well, the po
lice
called
me
in
again.”
Felicity
started
over.
“They
accused
me of all sorts of terrible things.
They
aren’t
nice to me
like
that nice
Detective
Lamont who comes to see
you.”
Her lip
quiv
ered.
“How
could
they
think I
would
attack someone,
even
Cas sandra? I’m not a violent
person.”

“This is very
tasty,
Felicity.
Did they come right out
and
accuse you?”

“No,
they
just
browbeat
me. Where
was
the
sweater,
where
was
it the last time I
saw
it, did I hate Cassandra, what
was
this
thing
about
Sweatergate,
can
I
prove
I
was
where
I
said
I
was?
It
was
horrible. Where did I get the candy cane? What candy cane?
They
didn’t
even
offer
me a cup of
coffee.”