Killer Hair (38 page)

Vic took one look, flew over to Lacey, who was shaking, and moved her safely out of the way of Beau’s hysterical mother.

“I can’t leave you alone for a minute, can I?”

She looked at him. She felt as if she were wrapped in cotton. Her voice sounded strange.

“Where the hell have you been? You are never there for me, Vic Donovan, so just what the hell damn good are you?”

“Whoa, calm down, Lacey. I’m here now.”

“Easy for you to say. I have to face Razor Boy, here, all alone. By the way, he’s the killer. In case anyone was wondering.” Her voice rose. “The killer. Times three. No, four. Almost five.”

“It’s under control, Lacey.” Vic’s guys were talking into cell phones.

“Now it is! No thanks to you! I told you they weren’t suicides. But do
you
do anything? No! I have to subdue the goddamn killer all by myself.”

“Lacey, you’re a little hysterical.”

“What do you mean, a little? I deserve to be hysterical! A lot hysterical.” She laughed. “I have to defend myself with hair spray and a curling iron! Damn! Damn! Damn!” To her complete horror, her eyes filled with tears. She turned around so he wouldn’t see them. Vic put his hands on her shoulders.

She cleared her throat. “I was trying to find a phone to call nine-one-one, but he blocked the door. Polly Parsons is dead. Beau killed her. She’s in the other room. Poor Polly. She should never have asked him about her hair.” She heard someone run in there and scream. It might have been Josephine. “I think I’ll sit down now.”

Someone got her a chair; she didn’t notice who it was.

Vic was afraid she would cry for real. “Dueling with scissors, Lacey. That’s real commando stuff. We didn’t cover that at the range.”

“A woman’s gotta do what a woman’s gotta do.”

Security guards burst in and took over the door. Then emergency personnel flooded the area. They put Beau, still unconscious, on an IV and strapped him to a gurney. They left the shears in place.
They must’ve taken the same first-aid class.
The guards blocked the room where Polly Parsons fell.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t here.” Vic knelt next to her. “Okay, Dragon Slayer. It’s all over now.”

She knew it wasn’t. It was a big mess. Stella appeared out of nowhere and wrapped Lacey up in a ferocious hug. The story had spilled out of the room as if on tom-toms. Vic left them alone to help secure the scene.

“You did it, Lacey!” Stella squealed. “You are totally
grrrr!
But holy cow, honey, how did you know it was Beau?”

Lacey found herself babbling. “Hair. Hair. His hair. Hair extensions.”

“Hair extensions? What hair extensions?” Stella looked puzzled; then it dawned on her. “Oh my God! That’s where their hair went? Hair extensions? That’s disgusting!”

More Stylettos hairstylists arrived and formed a protective wall around Lacey. When the D.C. cops finally arrived, Stella and her stylists sang out a deafening chorus in defense of the woman who had won the title round of Salon of Death against a killer.

 

The aftermath developed into a ready-made media mob scene, with so many broadcast personalities unexpectedly all dressed up at the actual scene of a crime. They called in their camera crews and broke into regularly scheduled programming with innumerable updates to show off their fabulously fashionable new looks, courtesy of Sizzle in the City and Stylettos.
Polly would have been proud.

Lacey Smithsonian of
The Eye Street Observer
was hauled off for questioning and the story led the news on four stations and CNN. Claudia called from Paris, thrilled. The paper might not have the respect of its peers, but it could poke them in the eye with a world-class scoop once in a while. Mac was strutting like his namesake, General MacArthur.

Unfortunately, Lacey’s last view of Vic was with Josephine draped all over him as he was propping her up and helping her to be strong. The cops took Lacey to a secure, undisclosed location. She immediately lawyered up and waited until Brooke Barton, Esquire, of Barton, Barton & Barton, arrived to guide her though the process and help bully the cops.

By midnight, Lacey was hoarse from endless explanations to the D.C. police and Agent Thorn of the FBI. But the tide of their questioning turned from hostile to accommodating when she remembered the voice-activated tape recorder in her purse, with Beau’s admissions and his plans to save her hair after she was dead. Brooke practically glowed with pride. She loved clandestine tape recordings. Lacey also told them about Angie’s blood-spattered styling station and the luminol photos, which Vic later turned over.

The question she found hardest to answer was this: “If you had suspicions, Ms. Smithsonian, why didn’t you tell the police?” She finally had to remind them that she had told the world, or at least her readers, that the two suicides were really murders. And the cops hadn’t believed her.

At one a.m., Brooke had had enough and demanded they either press charges or back off. When they finally turned Lacey loose, Brooke took her back to her town house in Alexandria, where they ate hot-fudge sundaes and drank whiskey shooters until three.

Mac had told her to take the rest of the week off, which she rejected. She knew that she could never gain back the newsroom’s hard-won respect if she wimped out. She would have to put on her war paint and storm right back into the newsroom tomorrow morning, fashionably late, but back. To Mariah’s Desk of Doom. To Mac’s bad ties and plaid shirts. To Felicity’s tart lemon bars.

To the fashion beat.

by Lacey Smithsonian

 

Right now, somewhere in Washington, D.C., a scandal is brewing. It hasn’t happened yet, but it will. Tomorrow or the next day or the next. Somewhere, a hapless victim is on the precipice of a fashion disaster. An unsuspecting woman will have her unsavory secrets exposed to the harsh light of day, the hot lights of television news, and the wisecracks of stand-up comedians everywhere.

When the scandal comes—and it will—this woman will be targeted for a full-scale assault on the way she acts, dresses, and looks, in addition to the salient details of her particular mess. Remember Linda, Paula, Monica, and Marcia. And now you.

Take it from a reporter. Whoever you are, we, the media, will excoriate you. Your old friends will rat on you. And it will be worse if your face isn’t ready to face the music.

It is of appearance we speak here. Because how you are treated by the press depends greatly on how you look. It’s not fair, but that’s life. And it’s worse for women. Generally, the media does not bother to humiliate men for their flab, their droopy jowls, their comb overs. Photographers do not waste film trying to get the best angle on their double chins and imperfect orthodontia. No, it is the modern-day Jezebel who is always dragged through the tabloid mud.

You know who you are—or maybe you don’t, and you’ll find out the same way we all will, by opening the morning newspaper. But if you wait to have that makeover until after the scandal breaks, it’s too late—your image is already set in black-and-white and color. The lesson learned from past scandals is that you must look your best at all times. In the interest of fairness, I’m suggesting a few tips.

Your attention, class: Smithsonian’s School for Scandal.

First, be clear about the look you’re going for as you prepare to testify before the special prosecutor or chat with your friends in the Federal Bureau of Investigation. You want to appear attractive, demure, innocent, and thin. You do not want to look guilty, like a femme fatale, or, heaven forbid, fat.

Now, let’s take it from the top, shall we? What about your hair? Short, sleek, shiny hair is a popular look for court. It is also acceptable to pull back long hair and secure it with a subtle tie. Try a chignon or a sophisticated French twist à la Hitchcock heroines. Hair can be any almost any color, but please avoid overprocessed, overpermed blond hair. That cotton candy look does not sell in our Nation’s Capital. And for heaven’s sake, use a comb! Bed head is dead. Remember that in humidity-drenched Washington, most women need gel, hair spray, or mousse to keep their hair under control. If you simply must sport Pre-Raphaelite masses of curls, or wear oversized hair ornaments like bows or scrunchies, throw yourself on the mercy of the court.

Crying jags make skin splotchy, and this looks bad, which we all know means you’re guilty. Make friends with makeup—with a well-blended foundation. Use concealer for those dark circles from sleepless nights, and use mascara and subdued shadow to emphasize your eyes. Don’t forget blush and lipstick. Nails should be neatly manicured. It should go without saying that green, blue, purple, and black polish will send the wrong message to the legal system.

For those panicky public encounters, do consider wearing:

• Pearl earrings and necklace, which say you’re really very cultured in spite of your scandalous behavior. A small tasteful pin for the lapel is also appropriate.
  
• Subdued well-tailored suits, in flattering though reserved colors, when you testify. Navy, brown, and black may be boring, but boring is good, the opposite of scandalous. A sharply tailored coatdress is also a winner and easy to wear. Bright colors and pastels will send a weak impression. In Washington, red is the exception to the bright-color rule. It is a power color. But be careful: Power corrupts. And remember, sleeves are never supposed to reach the second knuckle.
  
• Purses that are neat, tailored, and in good shape. A sleek shoulder bag is fine. Anything approaching the size of a grocery bag is too large. But they should be practical, large enough to carry a comb, lipstick, and a small compact for a quick touch-up in the ladies’ room. And while you would probably like to carry a stun gun for those pesky journalists, I have to counsel against it.
  
• Black pumps, navy if necessary, medium heels, and no whining. Stockings, of course. The look should be well polished and neat.
  

Things to avoid like a visit from
60 Minutes
:

• Loud prints, polka dots, or plaids. They draw the wrong kind of attention.
  
• Dresses with puff sleeves and little ties in the back. You are not five.
  
• Odd garments such as overalls, unless you are a farmer or have a reasonable explanation, such as building houses for the poor.
  
• Stretched-out sweaters, which look particularly desperate. Desperation equals guilt.
  
• High hooker heels, unless you are in that business and not even then. In Washington, if your shoes scream guilty as sin, you’re doomed.
  

Finally, take time to plan what you’ll wear to court, to Congress, or to the press conference. Make sure everything fits well and is pressed and clean, the buttons are secure, the hem is stitched. If you’re going to be in the media spotlight, you can at least look like a star, not a fashon felon. And when your tawdry little scandal finally fades—and it will—you’ll still have those tabloid clippings to remind you of the good old days when you were the hottest thing inside the Beltway.

Chapter 29

On Thursday, Beauregard Radford was charged in the District of Columbia with the murder of Polly Parsons and the attempted murder of Lacey Smithsonian. Shampoo Boy was in intensive care, but expected to recover fully. Other charges were pending against him in Northern Virginia for the murder of Boyd Radford. Investigations into the deaths of Angie Woods and Tammi White were being reopened and murder charges were expected. Leo was telling everyone from the Arlington police to Tony Trujillo that he was just a fall guy. Josephine Radford wasn’t responding to the media. Beth Ann Woodward had gone to her summer place in Maine, a little early in the season.

Mac announced he would put Lacey’s picture at the head of her “Crimes of Fashion” column. She was horrified, and they were still wrangling over it weeks later. DeadFed dot com dedicated an editorial to “Scissor-Hand Smithsonian” and opined that she might be the target of a congressional conspiracy. Trujillo wrote the Thursday breaking story—“Eye Reporter Defends Herself with Shear Genius”—on the shocking events at what
The Eye
called “Slaughter in the City.”

Marcia’s videotape, her “insurance policy,” had yet to be found, even though the FBI was very interested now. Angie’s mother called to thank Lacey, but Lacey pointed out that she should really thank Stella, who had urged her on every step of the way.
Nudged, cajoled, and badgered, to be exact.

Trujillo threw her an impromptu party at the newsroom late Friday afternoon. Claudia flew in from Paris. Brooke brought her entire law firm, including her father and uncle, both retired federal prosecutors, and danced with every man in the newsroom. She was delighted to find Tony Trujillo’s pheromones apparently unjammed. Stella arrived with Michelle, Jamie, Bobby, and Marie the psychic, who gave everyone a free reading and told Mac his aura was “plaid.” Mac supplied the food and liquor at company expense, and best of all, Felicity had to leave early and missed the party altogether.

Vic did not attend the party. Stella offered to invite him, and Lacey offered to find another stylist. She didn’t want him there. When asked why, she was ironic about it. “It never fails. There I am alone with a madman and where’s Prince Charming? Out feeding his horse, polishing his guns at the tavern with some serving wench on his lap.”

“Hardly a serving wench, Lacey. She’s the grieving widow.”

“The point is, Stella, my dear, we don’t need knights in shining armor as long as we have our own weapons, whether they’re hot curling irons, a full can of hair spray, or sharp shears.”

Sometime after midnight, in Farragut Square, across from
The Eye
’s headquarters, Lacey, Brooke, and Tony toasted the statue of Admiral David “Damn the torpedoes; full speed ahead!” Farragut with the paper’s champagne. They agreed that “full speed ahead” was the only way to run a newspaper.