Hostile Makeover (31 page)

Lacey backed slowly toward the door. The Grim Reaper approached, scythe in gloved hand, as if it were enjoying this game. Lacey looked around for something else to use for her defense when she heard footsteps rushing toward the room. The hooded figure glanced back at Spaulding, who lay there quietly, and the grinning skeleton mask seemed torn between finishing off the job, attacking Lacey, or bolting out the door.

Nurses and doctors reached the doorway and stood staring at this odd little Halloween tableau. The Reaper gave the empty bed a vicious shove toward Lacey, slamming her hard into the wall. The bed cut off her air, and when she hit the wall she was aware of a sharp pain in her hip. Two doctors stood blocking the doorway, but the Reaper growled and charged straight at them scythe first, and they parted like a flimsy hospital gown. Lacey caught her breath and raced to the door just in time to see the tall black-robed figure disappearing down the hall. She never did get to talk to Spaulding.

 

“The good news is, you saved Dr. Spaulding’s life,” Detective Broadway Lamont said, though he sounded a little cranky about it. “The bad news is, I still don’t understand what the hell you’re doing messing around in this case. I don’t like how people get attacked just when you come calling. You got the jinx on you? You been hoodooed or what?” Lamont had caught the 911 call to respond to the second attack on the doctor. They were sitting in an unoccupied waiting room. Lacey sighed again.

“I told you, I’m innocent. I was just following up on the Amanda Manville story. It’s what I do. Spaulding said he’d talk to me today, but all I got was a silent encounter with the Grim Reaper.”

“And that’s another thing I don’t like. How do you think it feels to put out a bulletin on the Grim goddamn Reaper? I feel like a damn fool. But you’re in luck. At least two doctors, three nurses, and one candy striper corroborate your story.”

“A candy striper?”

He rubbed his nose. “Could have been a med student. They all look like babies to me. So what’s the damn deal with this Grim Reaper of yours?”

“A fashion clue?” Lamont grunted, but she persevered. “It was a pretty good disguise, don’t you think? Got him into the hospital, anyway. Lots of people start wearing costumes at work this close to Halloween. Maybe there’s a children’s wing with a Halloween party today?” He didn’t look convinced. She thought about Stella and her costumed coworkers at Stylettos. “There’s this place, Backstage Books, where they rent costumes. Maybe our Reaper got it there. It used to be near Dupont Circle on P Street. They moved near Eastern Market a while back.”

“I’ll check it out, Smithsonian. Got that? The
detective
will follow up on the
civilian’s
information. Because that’s the detective’s
job
. Backstage Books.”

“No problem. And now I have to pick up my mother and sister at the beauty salon.”

“Well, that sounds pretty damn civilized, but I’m sure you’ll find some way to get the cops involved,” he said. “Get out of here. I have your word that you’ll be with your family and do touristy stuff for the rest of today?”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

“You gonna stay out of trouble?”

“You have my word, Detective Broadway Lamont.” She stood up and moved slowly, rubbing her hip, which was probably black and blue. She winced.

“Are you okay, Smithsonian?”

“Peachy.” She smiled. “Just peachy.”

“Then I won’t be seeing you again soon. Be safe, you hear?”

“Likewise,” she said. She limped out of the waiting room and out of the hospital. Walking had lost its appeal. She took a cab back to Dupont Circle.

When she opened the door at Stylettos it seemed that two completely different women greeted her, wearing new hair, makeup, and clothes, their tourist togs stuffed in Ann Taylor Loft shopping bags. She looked at Stella.

“Who are these women, and what have you done with my mother? And my sister?”

“Just a little makeover. You were gone a long time, so we threw in some extras. Don’t they look great?”

They did, in fact, look great. Stella had coaxed Cherise out of her perpetual blond Barbie-doll ponytail and into a sexy, swinging cut that skimmed her shoulders. It was a little too close to Lacey’s own style, she thought, but she held her tongue. Stella had also applied her magic touch to Cherise’s makeup. Her sister was a knockout, looking far more worldly than when she got off the plane the day before. She wore a navy-blue turtleneck with a short and sassy Black Watch plaid skirt and dark tights with comfortable flats, a sophisticated blond-cheerleader-next-door look.

And Rose Smithsonian looked alarmingly unmotherlike. She looked like a more knowing and alluring woman of a certain age. “You waxed your eyebrows!” Lacey said. Rose was wearing a brown skirt and tights, and a brown turtleneck that set off her ash-blond hairstyle that was now a bit shorter with a sleek blowout. Around her neck was a gold silk scarf.
My God, she almost looks French.
Sacre bleu!

“What do you think, Lacey?” Stella asked. Lacey was at a loss for words.

“Isn’t Stella a living doll?” her mother asked, in a tone that implied Lacey was not.

“I don’t know what to say.”

“Speechless,” Stella said, beaming. “I’ll take that as a compliment. Come here.” She pulled Lacey back to her styling station, out of earshot, and waved to
les femmes
Smithsonian, who were picking out expensive hair products at the front desk. “I gotta tell you, Lacey. They did this all for you.”

“Huh? How is what you did for them really for me?” She stood there, waiting for Stella to divulge the priceless intelligence she must have gathered in the last two hours.

“Gosh, your mom is so proud of you. They want to fit in with you here.” Stella sounded so wistful, Lacey wanted to believe her.

“No way.”

“Absolutely, they want to live up to you, because you’re the famous Washington fashion expert.”

“They never said that.”

“I swear they did!” Stella crossed her heart for emphasis.

“Very funny, Stella. Tell me another one.”

“They are in awe of you. I know I am.”

“You’re all in awe of me? No doubt in that smack-Lacey-in-the-head, tell-her-how-to-live-her-life kind of awe? Like they don’t know exactly which planet I come from?”

“It’s like you’re psychic sometimes, Lacey.”

“But did you pump them for information that I might need to know, like I asked you?”

Stella started to stay something, but then she stopped, distracted by the new client who was being escorted to her station by the shampoo boy. Lacey turned to follow her gaze. Even with wet hair and a towel over her head the woman’s walk and presence seemed familiar to Lacey. She was tall and aggressively busty. When the towel came off, she was revealed as a blonde, though her dark roots were showing.

“Stella, who is that woman?” Lacey asked quietly, but then she and the woman locked eyes in the mirror. It was Montana McCandless Donovan Schmidt, Vic’s ex-wife, in the rather voluptuous flesh.
Does she remember me?
Lacey wondered. They said nothing to each other, but Montana lifted one eyebrow in recognition before Stella cut off their eye contact.

Okay, she recognizes me. But what on earth is she doing here? In my hair salon! With my stylist!

Stella turned her back to Lacey and addressed the woman professionally. “Hi, I’m Stella. So what are we doing today?”

“Something sexy,” Montana purred. “I’m getting my ex back this weekend.” As if Montana knew what Lacey was thinking, she confided to Stella, “He recommended you.”

Oh, Vic,
Lacey moaned to herself,
why are men so stupid?

Stella laughed. “Don’t worry, hon; when I’m through with you, he’ll be a goner.”

Lacey felt her heart plummet to her toes, but she bravely lifted one eyebrow in scorn to the woman in the mirror. Lacey fervently hoped Stella would give Montana one of her over-the-top, Halloween-special, goth-princess-on-gasoline-fumes looks. But no, Stella would just camouflage the blond man-eater’s telltale dark roots with a gallon or so of ‘Brazen Blonde’ hair color and cheerfully send her out to stick her knife in Lacey’s back.
What if I whispered just the right words in Stella’s ear?
Lacey mused.
What if I said, “Stella, if you were ever my friend, remember that game of yours: Salon of Death?”
But someone tugged at Lacey’s arm.

“Lacey, let’s go; I’m starving,” Cherise said.

“Lunch, of course.” Lacey tried not to limp as she walked to the door. Her hip ached, and her heart was broken. She could hardly wait to see what would happen next.
A plague of locusts?

“Whoa, who was that cheap package of goods?” her newly elegant sister sniffed, referring to Montana.

“Sometimes, Cherise, you know exactly the right thing to say.”
Who knew my little sister could ever make me feel better?

Chapter 23

“But I want to see where it happened, Lacey,” her mother said over her cappuccino after lunch at Kramerbooks, the little bookstore and café down the street from Stylettos.

“Where
what
happened?”

“Where Amanda Manville was shot,” Cherise said. “It’s right around here, isn’t it? That’s what Stella said.”

“What did she tell you?”
I knew I couldn’t trust her.

“Everything! And it’s impossible to miss all of your stories that she has posted in the salon. She thinks you’re brilliant. She, like, quotes you all the time,” Cherise said, highlighting the downside of having a fan like the inimitable Stella.

“And while I’d much rather you weren’t involved with this whole murder mess, your family is here for you,” her mother intoned. “And we are going to help you.” Her mother was calm. Too calm. Rose might as well have added,
whether you like it or not.

“Help me?” This was the worst possible suggestion.

“With your investigation, of course. That’s what you’re up to, isn’t it? I recognize the look on your face,” Rose said.

Lacey tried to make her face as blank as possible.

“It’s that I’ve-got-a-secret-and-I’m-not-telling-Mom look,” Cherise explained helpfully. “Yeah, like that. Right there. The Lacey look.”

“You don’t have to be so smug, Lethal Feet,” Lacey snapped back.

“Hey, that’s not fair. It was just that once, but you’re always—”

“Girls, girls, girls. Don’t bicker,” Rose refereed.

“You two don’t understand what my job is all about. I don’t make up stories; they just happen. I only ask questions of people. That’s all.”

“Questions that lead to stabbing people with scissors and . . . and sword thingies.” Her mother sniffed. “I must say, I never raised you to do that sort of thing. It must come from your father’s side of the family.”

“Like Aunt Mimi?”

“Exactly. In any case, we’re here to see that you’re safe this weekend. After all, there is a killer on the loose,” her mother said, as if this were the most natural subject for the family to be discussing. “And by the way, are we going to see any more of that nice Victor Donovan? Such a gentleman, bringing you flowers like that.”

“No, we’re not.”
Though I may have to kidnap him to keep him from being hijacked by Montana, the Venus Mantrap.
“He’s very busy. Homeland Security and all that.”

“Let’s go to the Circle and see where Amanda was shot,” Cherise urged. “Mom’s taking an interest in you, Lacey. You are the eldest child, after all.”

“I take an interest in both my girls.” Rose smiled at both of them and gave each a quick little hug to indicate the equality of her affection. “And their little problems.”

“I give up; let’s go. One scene of the crime, coming right up.” Lacey paid the bill, stashed their bags of clothes and new Stylettos-brand hair products in the trunk of the rental car, fed the parking meter again, and led them down the street to Dupont Circle.

“It must have been right there,” Rose said, marching over to where the large pile of flowers lay, the hodgepodge of grocery-store bouquets and stems of roses that Lacey had seen earlier. The blooms were accompanied by signs of remembrance to Amanda: WE LOVE YOU, AMANDA. WE’LL NEVER FORGET YOU. THE GOOD DIE YOUNG. FAREWELL, BEAUTIFUL BUTTERFLY.

The small man Lacey had seen earlier was still lurking about, though it looked like he had gotten a takeout lunch and eaten it there. This time he wasn’t going to get away from her. “I’ll be right back,” Lacey said. “I have to talk to someone.” Without another word, she headed swiftly for John Henry Tyler, who seemed to know who she was. He headed in the opposite direction around the fountain, which, being dead center in the circle, impeded a straight getaway. Tyler was speedy for someone so small, Lacey thought, and she picked up the pace. She noticed that Cherise had loped off counterclockwise around the fountain to head him off at the pass.

Rose followed, and soon Tyler was surrounded by three Smithsonian women, his back to the fountain. To escape, he’d have to take a dip in the water. He was barely taller than Lacey, maybe five-foot-six at the most.

“Hello, John Henry Tyler. I am Lacey Smith—”

“I know who y’all are,” he said, cutting her off short and glaring at her through his round horn-rimmed glasses. Tyler spoke in a quick, flat staccato, brushed heavily in a West Virginia accent and cadence. Even in his khakis and old tweed jacket, he had a fastidiousness about him that surprised her. His skin seemed to shine with an extra scrubbing. “I know who y’all are, and did you have to bring your whole posse to round me up?” He took off his glasses and polished the lenses with a handkerchief from the breast pocket of his jacket. The first time Lacey saw him, he had been sweating. Was he calmer now because Amanda was dead?

“Whatever it takes. Pardon my manners. Mom, Cherise, this is John Henry Tyler.” And to him, she said, “This is my mother, Rose Smithsonian, and my sister, Cherise Smithsonian.”