Hostile Makeover (27 page)

“I do have an opinion, Cherise, and I love your touristy outfits. You’ll fit right in at all the museums.”

“Mom plans to buy everything she can lay her hands on that has the name Smithsonian on it,” Cherise pointed out. “And so do I.”

“We’ll get right on that.” Lacey breathed a sigh of relief as the bags finally hove into view on the carousel and pulled their attention away. “But Cherise, I’m not sure they have those seven-days-of-the-week Smithsonian bikini underwear you’ve been longing for.”

“Very funny. I’ll settle for the T-shirt. And the sweatshirt. And the baseball cap, and the tote bag, and the umbrella, and . . .”

Lacey’s rent-a-tin-can barely held the three of them and their motley collection of neon-colored luggage, but Rose commented favorably on Lacey’s sensible choice in transportation. Soon they were motoring sedately down the George Washington Memorial Parkway toward Old Town Alexandria. Lacey pointed out various scenic attractions as they passed: the Potomac River on their left; the memorial to the Confederate dead in Alexandria, with the grieving Rebel soldier facing South, turning his back on the Union; the bustling Beltway; and the war zone near her apartment building, where the Commonwealth of Virginia was building a new Woodrow Wilson Bridge practically in Lacey’s hip pocket, a project which she despised even more than Harlan Wiedemeyer did.
The vicious bastards!
And then they were home.

Now all Lacey had to worry about was how she could get rid of them for an hour or so in the morning, in order to make her interview with Spaulding, who was listed in improved condition at George Washington Hospital. She had called him earlier on the off chance he’d talk to her. Spaulding was in good spirits; he said he wasn’t going anywhere, he was sleeping a lot. She took that as an invitation and made an appointment to see him Saturday.

Her mother’s main concern, a car for “poor Lacey,” was resurrected on the way home in the rental car, at the grocery store buying the additional supplies Rose insisted she needed, and in the elevator going up to her apartment. Her mother finally conceded that maybe Cherise’s minivan wouldn’t work for Lacey, but another plan bubbled to the surface. “You know, your father and I have been thinking about buying a new car. You could take your father’s Oldsmobile station wagon! He only uses it these days for hauling those big sheets of plywood, and deer hunting, and it still runs like a top. It’s built like a tank; I’ve always felt very safe in it.”

The very thought of piloting that immense faux-wood-grain gas hog full of venison carcasses sent shivers down Lacey’s spine. “Mother, it’s very sweet of you to care. And I remember Dad’s
Battlestar Galactica
fondly. But I’m an adult. I will decide what kind of car I will buy. If it turns out to be a mistake, it will be my mistake.” The elevator doors parted and she steered her family down the hallway.

Lacey unlocked the apartment door, and much to her surprise Stella was there. Had she returned, or had she never left? Even stranger, there was the intoxicating aroma of cookies baking, chocolate-chip cookies. Stella rushed to greet them with a big smile.

“Oh, Lacey. This must be your mom and your sister. Hi, I’m Stella. Come on in; I’ve just been doing a little baking.” She was wearing the only apron Lacey owned. Never before worn, it was a gag gift from some friend long ago. It said, KISS THE COOK! The matronly white garment nearly covered up a red miniskirt and a revealing red sweater that displayed the startling cleavage Stella was so proud of.
A punk Martha Stewart.

“Stella, you didn’t have to do this.” Lacey was puzzled, sure that Stella had gone home to the gloomy little apartment where the hairstylist had evidenced nary a trace of such domesticity.
This can only mean danger.

“It’s my pleasure.” Stella grabbed an oven mitt, opened the oven door, and removed a tray full of perfectly browned chocolate chip cookies. She set them on top of the stove as efficiently as a voluptuous purple-haired Betty Crocker.

“Lacey, introduce us to your charming friend,” her mother said. Stella had once told Lacey she was good with mothers; other people’s mothers, that is, not her own.

“Mom and Cherise, this is Stella. She’s my hairstylist. And my friend. And my cookie baker.” She raised an eyebrow at Stella.
And full of surprises. What are you up to?

Cherise unloaded milk cartons from a grocery bag and started pawing through the cupboards. “Where are your glasses, Lacey? We have to have cold milk with hot cookies,” she said, just like a little Girl Scout.

“It’s so nice to meet one of Lacey’s friends,” her mother said, exactly as if Lacey were ten years old on a play date.

“Same here, I’m sure.” Stella launched into a compressed explanation for her bizarre behavior. “Anyway, this is just a little thank-you for Lacey. I was so freaked out over being grilled by the cops that I was, like, totally convinced that crazy drive-by shooter would get me next, and my boyfriend was out of town, so Lacey let me stay here last night. I also got to help pick out the sheets you’re going to break in on her new trundle bed. They’re totally cute, even if they are really tame, if you know what I mean.” She winked at Rose and tossed a meaningful look at Lacey, who felt like sinking through the floor.

“Drive-by shooter?” Rose looked nonplussed. “Is that some sort of new drink?”

Cherise had poured cold milk for four and was sliding hot cookies onto a pretty hand-painted china plate that had belonged to Aunt Mimi. She set everything down on Mimi’s cherry dining room table.

“Cookies and milk, everybody! Get ’em while they’re hot!”

Chapter 20

“Lacey, what’s a ‘drive-by shooter’?” Rose Smithsonian asked again, clearly hoping this was some new slang term, perhaps for a happy-hour special at a drive-in.

“Guys, it’s time for cookies and milk,” Cherise announced again. She ushered everyone into the dining area, then decided it would be nicer to sit down in the living room. She moved them again.

“Lacey didn’t tell you?” Stella chirped. “That’s because she is so modest. You can read all about it in
The Eye Street Observer
or maybe on the Internet. Check out DeadFed for the inside story.”

“It’s nothing,” Lacey said to her startled mother. “All in a day’s work.”

Cherise set the cookies down on Aunt Mimi’s trunk, and Lacey quickly slid coasters underneath everyone’s cold glasses. “Wow, you still have this funny old thing,” Cherise said, meaning the wonderful trunk that Lacey considered her dearest and most important treasure. “Might be worth something at an antique store. If you like that kind of thing. Did you ever consider selling it?”

“No, I like this kind of thing. That’s why I have it, that’s why Aunt Mimi left it to me, and that is why I will never sell it.”

Cherise shrugged. “Just a thought, sis. Ever hear of eBay?” She tried to open it. “Hey, it’s locked.”

“Oh, my God, if you only knew what we have gone through for that trunk,” Stella said with a dramatic flourish of her cookie. “Lacey would never part with it.” Lacey shot Stella a look that said,
Stop now.

“What’s in it?” Cherise asked.

“Nothing. Just Aunt Mimi’s patterns.”

“Sewing patterns? You don’t sew. Nobody in our family sews. Besides, they’d be, like, a million years old.”

“Exactly,” Lacey said. “So you don’t have to look at them.”

“Still, they might be worth something.”

“They are priceless. To me. Okay? This trunk is going nowhere, okay?”

“All right, all right, chill out. It’s just a bunch of dumb patterns.”

Her mother tried again. “About the latest trouble you were in, dear. A drive-by what?”

“You don’t need to worry with Lacey on the case,” Stella burst in, while Lacey made hand signals to stop her talking. “She’s too modest, so I’ll tell you.”

“That’s not necessary,” Lacey said, panic setting in. She knew all too well that there was no stopping Stella when she was wound up. “Have another cookie. Everybody. Stella, have another.”

Stella put up her hand. “Not for me, ladies. I must have eaten half a bowl of cookie dough, and believe me, I’m stuffed. So anyway, I’m going to tell this story, okay?”

Rose Smithsonian settled into her chair comfortably. “Please continue, Stella, and don’t leave out anything interesting.” She picked up a cookie and took a sip of milk.

“Lacey always leaves out the good parts,” Cherise interjected.

“Don’t I know it.” Stella took a deep breath. “You know that supermodel, Amanda Manville? The one who supposedly killed her old boyfriend, but they never found his body, so she was off the hook?” Heads nodded in unison. “The one who used to be, like, really ugly, known as Ostrich in high school, but then she got all remodeled on that plastic-surgery change-your-life show,
Chrysalis Factor
? Well, they totally made her over so as to be a beautiful bride when she married her really ugly boyfriend, her fiancé, the one who died, that maybe she killed. And that was also going to be on television. I mean the wedding that didn’t happen, not the killing that maybe did. You with me so far?”

Lacey noticed that Rose and Cherise were concentrating very hard on following Stella.

“But the wedding fizzled, ’cause she was, like, too gorgeous now for the homely homeboy,” Stella continued, “and ’cause she had a sudden urgent thing for her doctor, you know, the one who redesigned her face? She fell in love with him, because he, like, gave her a new chin, ’cause she really didn’t have much of one, and some great new boobs, and took away that humongous honker of a nose. Well, of course she was grateful. Duh. I know I would be.” Stella tapped her own pert little nose.

Lacey stole a glance at her mother, who seemed way too interested in Stella’s story. Cherise was blissing out on hot cookies and cold milk.

“So she comes out of surgery gorgeous, especially with the makeup and the wardrobe,” Stella said. “I mean, what would you do if you’re suddenly gorgeous after being a gargoyle all your life? Marry the scary ugly boyfriend, or the babe-alicious doctor hero? Obviously you dump Mr. Ugly, become a supermodel, and grab the handsome doc. Right? Wedding plans ensue, only the plan goes all screwy, Amanda turns out to be way too high-maintenance—believe me, I know this from experience—and the doc dumps her. Meanwhile, death threats, stalkers, the works, the price of fame, you know?”

Stella took a breath, inhaled part of a chocolate chip cookie, and resumed her narrative while Lacey nibbled nervously. The cookies were terrific.
Where did Stella learn to cook?

“As I was saying, death threats. Oh, and she’s a fashion designer now too, like she didn’t have enough going on in her life already. Anyway, she tells Lacey, who is there at Snazzy Jane’s, the snotty boutique, only to write a fashion story, that she is in the crosshairs of a crazy killer, Amanda, not Lacey, but
this
is where Lacey really comes in. And it happens all the time to Lacey. Anyway, Amanda Manville, supermodel, asks Lacey Smithsonian to find out who it is. The killer. The killer-to-be, that is. If he does. Even though Amanda thinks it’s the doctor, she’s not a hundred percent sure. She asks Lacey, so justice can be served, and as luck would have it, it’s a crime of fashion too. So it totally fits with Lacey’s job.”

“And what happened to this Amanda Manville?” Rose asked.

“Oh, geez, I thought you heard! It was all over the TV, but then you’ve been on a plane all day; what am I thinking? She got killed, just like she said she would, just the other night. She was shot three times right in front of me, but she lingered for a while before actually dying.” Stella was winding down. “She died the next day. And now Lacey is going to find the killer, just like she always does, well, a couple times now, ’cause she, Lacey, has, like, this amazing sense for stuff like fashion clues that the dim-bulb cops are too clueless to pick up on. Isn’t she great?”

Stella looked at Lacey with admiration. Rose and Cherise were silent.

What’s the worst that can happen?
Lacey wondered, though she actually didn’t want to find out.
Maybe they’ll disown me in a huff and leave town.

“Me and Lacey were there! We saw it all happen! I was
this
close to taking a bullet myself, even though I was just there doing Amanda’s hair and makeup, and speaking of makeup, if you don’t mind my saying so, Mrs. S.—”

“Call me Rose.” Her mother looked a bit adrift, trying to digest Stella’s tale.

“Rose, I could do your makeup for you. It would be my pleasure. I’m just over at Stylettos salon at Dupont Circle, near where Amanda got killed. I could show you the exact spot. Lord knows you’re a beautiful woman like your daughters, but maybe you need just a little update?”

“An update?” Rose appeared to consider the offer.

“So Lacey is looking for the killer?” Cherise asked, proving she had been paying attention to something besides cookies.

“Lacey, you promised. No killers,” her mother said, as if that were just another teenage dating rule.
No drinking, no staying out past curfew, no killers.

“My job is just to talk to people and write what they say.”

Stella’s eyes opened wide. “Oh, no! She does way more than that. Don’t you worry about Lacey, because she’s got this total, like, talent for this kind of thing. Trust me,” Stella said. She stood up and took off the apron, revealing her red miniskirt ensemble, looking ready for some hot Friday-night action. “Come to the salon anytime. Stylettos, Dupont Circle, in the District. We’ll make room for you. And Cherise, you gotta lose that ponytail. It’s totally a first-day-on-the-Hill intern look. Don’t you just love a good makeover?”

Cherise stroked her hair, considering. Before Rose could cross-examine Lacey, Stella’s boyfriend, affectionately known as Bobby Blue Eyes, knocked at the door. His choirboy face and Cupid curls distracted the women as he collected his wild little crew-cut stylist. Stella ran her fingers through Bobby’s curls and gave him a huge welcome-home kiss that made Lacey long for Vic. But her heart sank at the thought of his spending the weekend with Montana. Forcing these thoughts away, she knew a crisis was brewing right here at home.
Maybe if I simply take a flying leap from the balcony they will forget the entire story.