Hostile Makeover (33 page)

Mac looked skeptical, as usual. “Nice to meet you.” To Lacey, “What are you doing here?”

Lacey sent her mother and sister to the staff kitchen to see if there was fresh coffee and then turned to Mac. “I went to G. W. Hospital this morning. Someone tried to snuff Spaulding. Again.”

“And you know this because . . . ?”

“I was there.” She saw his face cloud, and she rushed on to say, “I had already set a meeting with Spaulding. But when I got there, someone was in the act of smothering him. For the record, we never got to speak, what with the police report and all.”

Mac trained his eagle eyes on her. “And how does this connect to your beat, to fashion?”

Wow, good question, Mac. Wait, I know. . . .
“He, or she, was wearing a costume, the Grim Reaper, at least by my interpretation. Black robe, skeleton mask, pale eyes? Big scythe? It’s a fashion clue.”

He grunted, put his hands together, and cracked all ten knuckles in a rapid-fire motion. “How is Spaulding now?”

“He’s alive. If it helps, Detective Broadway Lamont said I saved the guy’s life.” She knew she was treading water here. Mac still did not look happy, but he was resigned.

“I’ll see if Detective Lamont will give us a quote to that effect. And Lacey . . .”

“Yes, Mac?”

“Go write the story, and get out of here.”

“No problem.”

Lacey found her mother and sister wandering around her desk and conferring about the surrounding decor. Her desk was in its usual state of barely controlled chaos. Paper, press releases, and notes were stacked in semiorganized piles. Luckily, she also had a pile of fashion magazines to distract them.

“If you turned your desk to a forty-five-degree angle, Lacey, you’d be able to take advantage of the natural light from the window and avoid the glare of the afternoon sun on your computer screen,” Rose suggested. “And your feng shui would be so much—”

“Mom, I’m sure it would. But if you start rearranging my newsroom, my editor will kick our feng shui right out of here.” She adjusted the blinds to dim the afternoon glare. “Now please sit down, and I’ll write my story as quickly as possible.”

“All right, but I don’t know how you could work in this environment,” Rose complained. “It’s simply bedlam.”

To Lacey, the newsroom looked the way it always did during the week. Except with much less bedlam. But the feng shui was certainly a little chaotic. Most of the reporters had their own system of filing. Tony Trujillo called it “archaeological,” meaning piles of newspapers, notebooks, and documents were stacked up to several feet high on their desks, filing cabinets, and the floor space all around them. Lacey’s desk was not nearly that bad, but she could tell the ambience made Rose nervous and Cherise bored. She turned back to her story.

The assailant wore black,
Lacey began.
The victim wore one of those awful hospital gowns. . . .

She was happy Rose and Cherise were drowsing over their old copies of
Vogue
. As she finished her story, she received an e-mail note from Trujillo that the memorial service for Amanda Manville would be held the next day at the new Bentley Museum of American Fashion, at two in the afternoon.
Oh, my,
she thought,
there’s that name again: Bentley.

Lacey looked at her fellow would-be investigators. “By the way, I have to attend the memorial service for Amanda tomorrow. It’s quasi-public, by invitation only.”

“Then you can get us in, right?” Cherise asked, rousing herself.

“Don’t get your hopes up.”

“By all means RSVP for all of us,” Rose said. “Do you think the murderer will be there?”

Lacey did think so, but she wasn’t going to say yes. It would only encourage them. It had to be someone close to Amanda; maybe someone who carried a grudge, someone who had been the victim of her abusive temper.
That doesn’t narrow it down much.
She wondered if Caleb Collingwood would be there, if he was still alive. He’d be pretty easy to spot, she thought. Lacey e-mailed her acceptance for a party of three from
The Eye
and hoped they would buy it.

“Aren’t you through yet?” Cherise’s foot was tapping and Rose had finished a cup of
The Eye
’s coffee, remarking on how loathsome it was. Lacey finished with the last paragraph then sent the file, turned off her computer, and grabbed her keys.

“Let’s go,” she said. “If the Smithsonian will not come to us . . .”

Chapter 25

Her legs were screaming, Lacey decided. They had every right to scream, after spending the entire rest of the afternoon marching back and forth and up and down and hither and yon on hard museum floors behind Cherise and Rose.

Everything interested her sister and her mother, it seemed. At the Museum of American History they raced through popular culture, oohed and aahed at the Presidential collections, kibitzed cattily at the First Ladies’ gowns and the ample figures that had been shoehorned into them, wondered as they wandered through early home building in America, and drank in every delicious detail of Julia Child’s kitchen. And now they wanted to play Clue with Amanda Manville’s death.

“But the motive, Lacey, don’t we need to discover the motive?” they kept asking. “Who wanted her dead the most?” They were determined to make this murder a bonding experience. “What do you think, Lacey?” they asked over and over.
I think I want to sit down and take my shoes off.

But it was really the shopping spree through the five—count ’em,
five
—gift shops at American History that was the crowning glory of their trip. Cherise loaded up on pink Smithsonian Cherry Blossom Festival T-shirts, navy Smithsonian sweatshirts, Smithsonian mugs, Smithsonian shot glasses, Smithsonian pencils, Smithsonian pens, Smithsonian memo pads, Smithsonian caps, and more, much more, all boldly emblazoned with the name Smithsonian.

Rose indulged in several sets of GREETINGS FROM THE SMITHSONIAN gift mugs and matching tote bags. She also picked up several other styles of Smithsonian tote bags, Smithsonian sweatshirts, tins of Smithsonian cookies and candies, and a host of small stocking stuffers, including Smithsonian change purses and key rings. Lacey picked up a Rosie the Riveter WE CAN DO IT mug and skipped the rest.

The more they bought, the happier they were. “This is so great, Lacey; half my Christmas shopping is done, and no one will be able to forget who this stuff came from,” Cherise said. “If I didn’t get enough, I’ll call you and you can just run over here and get more, right?”

“You’re not tired, are you, dear?” Rose inquired.

“I’ve lost the feeling in my feet.”

“As long as it’s not your head,” Cherise said.

“I think I’ll need crutches.” Lacey did lower-back stretches while they were in line to buy their loot at the last gift shop.

“You’re not petering out on us, are you?”

“Sorry, the cheerleader genes skipped me.” Lacey checked her watch and was grateful to see the doors would be closing in ten minutes. “Oh, darn, they’ll be chasing us out of here.”

“Can we come back tomorrow after the memorial service?” Cherise suggested. “Or we can do Air and Space, or Natural History. Or both.”

“That would be a treat,” Rose agreed.

“Wouldn’t it? But the service will probably be boring for you. I could bring you here and duck over to the service myself. It’s only a few blocks, really.”

“Nice try,” Rose said. “Remember, we’re a team.”

“What are we doing tonight, Lacey?” Cherise was still not showing any signs of fatigue. “Last night at your little jazz club was a kick and a half.”

“How about some supper?” Rose said. “You will want something to eat. Then we can make a list of everyone Lacey thinks had a motive to kill Amanda Manville. We can cross-check means, motive, and opportunity, just like on TV.”

To Lacey’s relief, Cherise thought that sounded “cool.” Even better, they agreed to Lacey’s suggestion to retreat to Old Town for a steak dinner at the brew pub on King Street, which she always found restored her strength and good spirits. A medium-rare steak, she felt, was better than a bottle of vitamin B. She also felt she deserved it, after a rather trying day. She thanked heaven there were no vegetarians in her family. And even better, the big dinner finally had the appropriate soporific effect on Cherise, who agreed to go home and watch television for the rest of the evening. Oh, yes, and list all the potential murderers and analyze their motives.

 

Montana, murder, makeovers, and mayhem were on Lacey’s mind for the rest of the evening. She didn’t know if there was anything she could do about Montana, or that she’d even come to a conclusion about the murder of Amanda Manville, but she was pretty sure that she would not escape mayhem with her family around.
Broadway Lamont told me it’s always your nearest and dearest you’ve got to watch out for.

Visions of falling leaves and crisp walks in the woods with Vic and a cozy fireplace had fizzled in the glare of family togetherness, but they kept flirting with her imagination. She wondered if it would ever happen. And Rose and Cherise kept chattering happily away about poor murdered Amanda, like the three of them would come up with a major breakthrough on “the case.” But it was too early to give up the game and go to bed for the night without seeming antisocial.

“How did you first get involved in solving murders, and do you think you can make any money doing it?” Cherise asked. “Do you think it’s, like, a talent that runs in the family?”

“There are many talents that run in this family,” Rose said. “And I’m sure that Lacey would never charge for her investigations.” They were taking up all the space on her sofa. There was no room for her. She had to drag a chair over from an “intimate conversation area” where Rose had stationed it. They glanced up at her with interest. “If you sit there, dear, we won’t be able to see the movie.”

“It’s not time yet. Right now I need your attention, Mom. Your full attention, Cherise.”

“Oh, wow, have you figured it all out?”

“No. But we’re going to have a chat. And we have to come to an understanding about what I do. I am not a detective. I am not even an investigative reporter. I cover fashion. That’s it. Sometimes in the course of what I do, I notice something that leads to a discovery. What people wear reveals something about them. Maybe it’s just their standard of living, or that they are a designer snob, or their profession, or whether someone is a Democrat or a Republican, a student, a goth rebel, a soccer mom, or the neighborhood busybody. Things like that. Sometimes it reveals things they’re trying to hide. But I am not trying to do what the police do. Are we clear on that?”

They seemed to agree. “But how can you tell a murderer,” Rose wanted to know, “from what he’s wearing?”

Lacey thought. “Usually it’s the details, small things. Paying attention to things that other people miss.”
Like a man whose hair gets thicker—because he’s wearing extensions made of his victims’ shorn locks,
she remembered, thinking about the “Razor Boy” murders she had gotten involved with that spring, those dead hairstylists with their missing hair. “I merely ask questions. I am a writer, not a freelance righter of wrongs. I do not willingly put myself in danger.”

“Of course not, dear, and we’re here to make sure of that,” Rose said. “But how did you end up having to stab all those—” The phone rang, and Lacey ran for it gratefully.

“Hi, it’s Brooke. I’m downstairs. Can you buzz me up?”

“No need. Door’s broken, just push. Come on up. Where’s Damon?”

“With a source. Not with me. Just us girls. I thought you probably needed reinforcements; am I right?”

Do I ever.
When Brooke arrived she introduced herself as Lacey’s friend, so Lacey was spared making the usual introductions. Brooke brought a fresh bottle of gin and a sack full of limes and made herself right at home.

“G and Ts all around?” she asked. Cherise revived instantly.

“Who’s Damon’s source?” Lacey asked when she got Brooke alone in the tiny kitchen.

“I knew that would get you. But I don’t know. He says it’s too dangerous to tell me yet.”

She slipped off her jacket and took over Lacey’s kitchen to play bartender. Lacey pulled the tonic from the fridge, while Brooke sliced limes and squeezed juice into glasses. Lacey opened the gin and gave an extra shot to her mother’s and sister’s glasses.

“No doubt it concerns the top secret Bionic Babe project,” Lacey said drily.

“You’ll be sorry when it’s true, babe.”

“Astonished at any rate,” Lacey said, but her skepticism did not deter Brooke. It never did. They moved into the living room with the drinks.

“My, that’s strong,” Rose said, taking a sip.

“Mine is perfect,” Cherise said.

“We’re all going to the Manville memorial service, right?” Brooke asked. “I’m going with Damon. My man in the know. You’ll meet him.”

“Of course,” Cherise said. “We wouldn’t miss it. I read that several major supermodels are going to be there, like Heidi, Gisele, Claudia, Laetitia, maybe even
Tyra
.” She sounded as if she knew them all, just old friends of hers from Geronimo High. “And maybe even some movie stars.” She had been paying attention to the television news, as well as to her big sister. But her attention was now held by something else.

The movie was
Now, Voyager
with Bette Davis, just coming on sans commercials on WETA, the PBS station, and Cherise and Rose shot to attention. It was the ultimate sentimental makeover movie, Lacey had promised them, featuring Bette Davis’s transformation from frumpy spinster to sassy single heartbreaker with a fabulous wardrobe.

“Isn’t that the movie that’s all about cigarettes?” Rose asked. “Where that guy from
Casablanca
does that corny lighting-two-cigarettes-at-once thing and then gives her one?”

“Ooh, that’s so disgusting,” Cherise said.