Hostile Makeover (22 page)

“Accepting a ride from him was no favor. It’s turned out to be more of a punishment. He thinks we’re friends and I’m his lifeline to Felicity Pickles, and now he just won’t shut up.” She expelled a deep breath and shook her shoulders, trying to expunge Wiedemeyer from her consciousness. “But you digress. Back to Spaulding, Tony. Is he dead?”

“No, he’s at George Washington Hospital.” Tony perched on his favorite spot on her desk.

“When did this happen?”

“This morning. Apparently he was taking a break from his conference. He took the probably inadvertent precaution of strolling outside with several colleagues. All doctors, I hasten to add. They applied immediate first aid, and, no doubt, saved his life.”

“Lucky break.”

“Yeah, and he gets a professional discount. He’s in surgery now.”

“Do they know who did it?”

“Nobody knows nothing, Smithsonian. Except that it was someone on the street. Drive-by, walk-by, bicycle-by? Maybe one of the docs saw something, but I haven’t heard about it yet.”

Lacey put her elbows on her desk and her chin in her hands. “At least it wasn’t my car; the D.C. cops found it dumped behind Source Theatre. A dramatic choice. So, does this exclude Spaulding from suspicion in the murder of Amanda Manville?”

Trujillo stood up and scanned Felicity’s cubicle, looking for sweets. “Unless he had a disgruntled accomplice. Or someone else wrongly believed he was the shooter and decided to apply justice without due process.”

Lacey flipped open her notebook. “I interviewed him over coffee yesterday.”

“
Bruja!
Why didn’t you say so?” Trujillo shook her shoulders.

“I just did. After Amanda insisted she was a target and he was the one who wanted her dead, I thought I’d see what Spaulding had to say.”

“And what did he have to say?” Mac rumbled, appearing out of nowhere on little cat feet.
How much did he hear?
she wondered.

“That he had nothing to do with any threats to Amanda. Though he did take credit for turning her into the beautiful monster she was. With apologies.” She faced Mac. “If he was involved with her death, he didn’t do it himself.”

“He was alibied for the shooting. The cops let him go,” Trujillo said.

“Write it, Smithsonian,” Mac commanded. “Everything you know, but split your angles with Tony; he’ll do the police stuff. By the way, this will be your ‘Crimes of Fashion’ column for tomorrow. Front page.”

“But I already wrote my column for tomorrow.”

“And I’m your editor. It’ll keep. You’ll be one column ahead. You’re apparently the only one who interviewed both victims, and this is too hot not to jump all over it while it’s still sizzling.”

She knew better than to protest too loudly. After all, it was the front page. “I can write what I want?”

“Within reason.” An eyebrow danced, and he and Tony left, discussing the hard news story that Trujillo would write. Lacey started over again. She typed the working title that suddenly struck her as comical and creepy at the same time.
Not to worry,
she decided,
Mac will just change it anyway.

Lacey poured out everything she knew about Amanda Manville. She gave Mac more column inches than he could probably use.
It’s the front page; I might as well press my luck.
In addition to the column, Lacey composed a sidebar on the pandemonium she witnessed at the boutique that morning: “Shoppers Storm Snazzy Jane’s for Chic Chrysalis Clothing.”

It was nearly four o’clock when Lacey finished, and she was tired and hungry and increasingly bothered by something that had been nagging at her all day, just below the surface. She had thought it was just her normal deadline stress, plus the added stress of her life falling apart, but it wasn’t. It was something underneath the deadline anxiety, a dizzy, panicky feeling, like suddenly realizing she’d left her purse somewhere last night, who knew where, and now it had been missing for hours before she’d even noticed it was gone. What could it be that was eating at her?

“Oh, my God! Stella!” Lacey leaped to her feet and shouted at the half-empty newsroom. “What the hell happened to Stella?”

Chapter 17

Stella hadn’t called. Lacey hadn’t even seen her since just after Amanda’s shooting last night, when the D.C. detectives had separated all the witnesses before trundling them off to the Violent Crimes Branch for interrogation. Lacey’s stylist was pretty much the unofficial voice of Dupont Circle, especially when she was an eyewitness to a crime. It was unthinkable that after the experience she had gone through the previous night, Stella wouldn’t have called Lacey.
Probably at dawn.
Now she wondered with rising concern if Stella was okay, if she made it home safely, or if she was still in custody for some weird reason.

That can’t be it,
she thought.
If Stella were in jail, the whole world would have heard about it by now.

Lacey had a hard enough time herself dealing with Detective Broadway Lamont, and she hadn’t wasted much time thinking of anyone else, except Vic. Now guilt washed over Lacey like a cold shower.

Maybe she’s in trouble.
Lacey thought about the times Stella had come to her aid.
My God, why haven’t I thought about her till now?

She called Stylettos, but the new receptionist said that Stella hadn’t shown up or bothered to leave a message that she wouldn’t be in. It seemed that the temperamental Leonardo, of all people, was covering for her. Did madam want an appointment with Leonardo?
Not on your life. I want Stella.

“Gosh, do you think maybe something’s wrong?” the woman asked blithely. “I thought she just spaced us out. Happens, you know.”

Lacey then tried Stella’s number at home, but there was no answer. She dashed out to Eye Street and caught a cab that took her up Connecticut Avenue toward the National Zoo, where it became a veritable canyon of apartment buildings. She would have told the driver to step on it, but she didn’t know the translation in whatever his native language might be. Lacey knew the building, but she had never had been inside Stella’s place. Her stylist preferred to visit Lacey’s apartment in Old Town Alexandria, sometimes unexpectedly and unannounced. Lacey was certainly curious about how Stella lived and how many leather outfits she actually owned. But the closer the cab got to the building, the more nervous she became.

Stella dwelled inside a large older brick building with a small circular drive. As she opened the heavy oak front door, Lacey was blasted by the scent of pine cleanser. Dread mixed with the overwhelming pine smell and made her slightly sick to her stomach. The concierge made a call to Stella’s apartment and got no answer. Having no interest in checking it out himself, he signed Lacey into the building and said that if something was wrong to call him and he would call someone.

The hallway beyond the antiseptic lobby smelled musty, and the washed-out green paint looked like it needed a fresh coat beneath the forty-watt bulb. Lacey marched on to Stella’s place on the third floor. She knocked. There was no answer.
Please, God, no awful surprises. Please let her be okay.
Lacey knocked again. “Stella, it’s Lacey.” She pounded louder. She waited one full minute, her stomach turning over in panic. She pounded again. “Stella! It’s me! Anyone there?”

This time the door opened a crack. The inside chain was latched. “Lacey? What are you doing here? Hang on.” Stella closed the door, undid the chain, and opened it again to let her into the dark apartment, which had what looked like black drapes closed tight against the late-afternoon light. Stella’s face was smeared with dried tears and day-old makeup. Black smudges spread like spider legs down her cheeks and up toward her forehead. She wore only a large black T-shirt that reached her knees and proclaimed, I LIKE MY ATTITUDE PROBLEM!

“New look?” Lacey inquired, leaning back against the door because her legs felt rubbery. She felt terribly relieved that Stella was alive. She could have hugged her, black smudges and all.

“I kind of fell into bed after I got home.” She rubbed her eyes, making the smears worse.

“Are you okay?” Lacey couldn’t tell from the looks of Stella or her apartment. Clothes were tossed on nearly every surface, and there was a prevailing sense of gloom.
Or maybe it’s just the black drapes. Is it always like this, or is today special?

“Sure, I’ll be okay. Right? It’s just freaky. You know? The cops kept me out really late.”

“I know. Me too.”

Stella looked a little surprised. “Right. You were there too. I totally forgot, what with all the pandemonium.”

Lacey moved cautiously deeper into the apartment. “I got interviewed by the second-string guy,” she said. “You got the lead detective.”

“That Rogers moron? What an asshole. And cops and me . . . Well, this shit isn’t supposed to happen, you know?” Stella’s eyes started watering, and she rubbed her hands through her longish purple crew cut. She picked up a hand mirror from a stack of hair-styling magazines perched on the coffee table. “Wow, I’m a total mess. I look like a hard night at the 9:30 Club.”

“Have you eaten?” Lacey asked. “I’m starved; maybe we could catch a bite to eat. I’m buying.” The ambient gloom was getting to her.

“Yeah. Sure.” Stella was uncharacteristically subdued. “A shower, gotta have a shower. And . . .”

“What’s the matter, Stella?”

Tears threatened to spill down her face. Stella shook her head as if to clear it. “What time is it?” She squinted at a digital clock that sat on top of a television set. “Oh, my God, I missed work! Oh, Lacey . . .”

Lacey dropped her reserve and wrapped Stella up in a big hug that smeared her makeup even more. “It’s okay. Leonardo covered for you. I’ll call them and let them know you’re all right.”

“Thanks. I could really go for a Coke and some breakfast.” The tears finally fell. “I’m so freaked out, Lacey. I mean, she got shot right in front of me. And the television said she’s dead. I mean, I’ve seen dead people before, but I haven’t seen them go down. And she was right next to me. I could’ve been killed too. What if it was me he was aiming for? What if it was supposed to be me?”

“He wasn’t aiming for you.”

Stella stumbled around, picking things up and tossing them back down. “I keep seeing that look on her face. The only time she didn’t look like a total bitch on wheels. God, I know that sounds terrible. But all of a sudden she looked like a little girl who didn’t know what was happening to her. And she just kept walking; that was the worst.”