Veiled Revenge (9 page)

“Pleased to meet you,” Gwendolyn said, stepping back a bit, her smile frozen.

The two future in-laws couldn’t have been more different. Lady Gwendolyn looked like a poster for high tea in the library with the vicar, while Retta had seemingly just stalked out of the muddy meadow at Woodstock, by way of Newark, circa 1969. She wore orange print leggings, an immense caftan-style top in green and blue and gold, Birkenstock sandals, and what appeared to be a ten-pound art necklace fashioned out of concrete, copper pipe, and broken glass. Retta’s hair was a mass of unruly steel-colored curls she had never tamed or allowed a stylist to touch—not even her daughter.

“O.M.G., it’s worse than I imagined!” Stella whispered to Lacey. “Her hair! And that necklace! Jeez, you’d think she was Dumpster diving again.”

Stella had mentioned that her mother was a jewelry designer who made one-of-a-kind found art pieces, “like she was living off the land on a commune or something. Instead of living off Stepfather Number Three. Or Four. I forget.” Retta’s necklaces, Stella said, sold for a pretty penny, up to several thousand dollars, a much prettier penny than Lacey would be willing to pay. They weren’t the kind of thing one of Washington’s “Powerful Women in Pearls” or a woman like Lady Gwendolyn Griffin would buy. Retta Sloan’s jewelry told the world her customer was a free spirit. Or, as Stella said, “some kind of chump.”

“And who are you?” Retta said to Miguel. “Not the groom, I bet.”

He drew himself up to his full height. “Miguel Flores. I’m helping my
best
friend
Stella with some of the wedding details.”

“So where’s the groom? I thought he was supposed to be here.”

“Mom, back off,” Stella warned.

Retta’s gaze flicked over Lacey’s vintage ensemble. “And what are you supposed to be, a lawyer? Is there a pre-nup I don’t know about?”

“Lacey’s a fashion reporter,” Stella said. “And my very best BFF, Mom.”

“No kidding. Is that supposed to be fashion?”

“Like you’d know fashion, Ma.”

“I’m Lacey Smithsonian. I write for
The Eye Street Observer
. And my outfit is vintage.” She offered her hand, wishing she were on another planet.

“No kidding. At least you recycle. You still look like a lawyer to me. Everyone here in Washington looks like a lawyer, except Stella. And I should know, I’ve paid enough divorce lawyers.” Her laugh was a high-pitched bray.

Stella rolled her eyes. Lacey told herself not to be insulted and just enjoy the ride. “It’s just the way she is,” Stella whispered. “I toldja she would be a trip.”

“You’re having the reception here?” Retta glared at the hardwood floors and antique furniture. “I get the getting married outside in the grass kind of thing, but I don’t know, Stella, this just reeks of dead white men. Ancient history.”

“Lady Gwendolyn recommended it.” Stella’s expression said it all: Her mother was driving her crazy and the drive had just begun. “I love it. Lacey loves it. Miguel loves it. We all love it. You don’t have to love it.”

Retta rubbed her necklace as if it would protect her from the opulence. “Whatever. It’s perfectly fine, Stella, it just doesn’t feel like you. I expected something a little less, you know, cocktails-at-the-yacht-club. Something a little more you.”

“Really? Like what’s more me, Ma?”

“I always figured you’d get hitched on the back of a motorcycle, or on the beach, or in some smoky nightclub or art gallery. Something more out there, you know? I never expected this peppermint pink preppy party you’re planning.”

“Actually,” Miguel said, “there is to be no
peppermint
pink. It will be a medley of rose and cherry blossom shades. Pink is so retro now it’s actually
out there
.”

“I just assumed my girl would tie the knot in something new, modern. With an urban vibe, a stimulating color scheme, like say, gray and avocado.”

“What? The color of mold in a garage?” Stella snapped. Gwendolyn put a restraining hand on Stella’s arm. “It’s my wedding, not my funeral! All my life I wanted cherry blossoms for my wedding.”

“Cherry blossoms.” Retta shook her head and the iron-gray curls bobbed wildly. “Maybe I should have let my baby girl have that pink bedroom she always wanted, but with all the pink-blue gender stereotyping, it just felt so wrong. Pink is so—so fifties—so girly.”

Poor Stella
, Lacey thought.
Meeting her mother explains a lot
.

“You don’t have to come, Ma.”

Retta seemed stricken. “Not attend my own daughter’s wedding! What kind of mother would I be? I am your mother, you know. And I didn’t say it was
terrible
, Bugsy. I just said it was, you know, unexpected.”

“Bugsy?” Miguel whispered.

Stella looked mortified. “Don’t call me that.”

“Bugsy’s a cute name,” Retta insisted. “It’s what I called you when you were a baby! What’re you putting on airs for? For the BBC crowd?” She nodded toward Lady Gwendolyn Griffin, who stood by impassively.

“You know my name is Stella, don’t you, Mom? Do I have to write it down for you?”

Lady Gwendolyn decided to take things in hand. “A tour is in order, don’t you think?” She waved imperiously to the Arts Club representative and started walking. The others naturally fell in line behind her.

The Arts Club events coordinator, an attractive young man named Chet who seemed to have eyes only for Miguel, toured the group around the facility, showing them the bridal ready room upstairs, describing the accommodations on the mansion’s main floor, and suggesting how magical the patio would become with the addition of flowers, candlelight, and coordinated linens.

Years of British Embassy experience in marshaling major events and formal afternoon teas in unlikely places had forged a spine of steel in Lady Gwendolyn. She could just as easily command a single program coordinator or a staff of a hundred. She was more than equal to any social setting that required cloth napkins and crystal goblets.

There were some last-minute adjustments to be made in the arrangements, such as a
yes
on the crab cakes and baked Brie, a
no
on the quesadillas, but Lady Gwendolyn Griffin did not beg for small favors, she simply made
statements
. She smiled with those huge teeth and assumed that her word would be taken as law. Perhaps lulled by her dulcet British accent, Chet nodded his assent to everything she said. Stella nodded too, through her expression of glazed irritation at her mother. Retta appeared to be having an out-of-body experience.

Miguel and Lacey both approved of Gwendolyn’s instinctive command of the situation, if not her attire.
May the sun never set on Lady G’s empire.

Miguel winked at Chet, and Chet winked back.

“It shall all be done just as you say, madam,” Chet said.

“What, no pasta?” Retta asked. “Everybody loves pasta.”

“No pasta,” Stella said firmly. “Nigel doesn’t like it. It’s full of carbs. Yes to bacon, no to pasta. Like Lady G was saying.”

“Any other concerns, Stella?” Gwendolyn inquired.

“I thought it would be nice to have a pink tent out on the patio, just in case of rain?” Stella knocked on wood. Easy to do, there was old wood everywhere. “And maybe pink helium balloons? But if it’s impossible—”

“Darling Stella. If you want a pink tent full of pink balloons, my dear, then there shall be a pink tent full of pink balloons. Matter of fact, pink has always been my favorite color in a tent,” Gwendolyn said. She snapped her fingers at Chet, who nodded.

Retta checked her watch for the twentieth time. “Looks like everything’s all taken care of, so you don’t need me anymore. Do you?”

“We haven’t met Nigel yet,” Miguel pointed out. “Remember? The groom.”

“Mom can meet him later,” Stella said. “You gotta run, right, Mom?”

“As long as the groom’s not
imaginary
,” her mother brayed.

“You’ll see Nigel at the wedding,” Stella said. “Why spoil the surprise?”

“Can’t wait, Bugsy,” Retta said, already halfway to the front door. “I’ll go check out the snooty art galleries in Georgetown.”

“Check out some hair salons on your way,” Stella called after her. “Doesn’t even have to be my salon. Try a rinse. A blow-dry. Some color. Any color, I don’t care. And conditioner. Send me the bill! And don’t call me Bugsy!”

But Retta was already out the door and out of earshot.

Chapter 11

Stella’s shoulders sagged. Miguel put his arms around her, chuckling. “Oh, hon, your mother is something else.”

“You promised she’d be a trip,” Lacey said. She took over the hug from Miguel. “Don’t worry about it, Stel. Everybody has family members who aren’t exactly—
exactly
—what we want them to be.”

“About the wedding pictures: Does she have to be in them?” Stella was on the verge of tears.

“Now, Stella—” Gwendolyn began. “She is your mother.”

“I’m sorry, Lady G, she’s like a permanent wave I can’t do anything about. I’m so embarrassed.” Stella hung her head. Gwendolyn lifted Stella’s chin with a gentle finger.

“Stella, my dear. Never apologize for other people. Never. Even your own mother. As hard as that may be. She is not your fault and no one here will ever blame her on
you
. And, after all, every truly great party needs an eccentric or two.”

“Retta’s on beyond eccentric! Eccentric is a dotty old aunt who pinches your cheeks. Eccentric is Miss Havisham, and she dressed better than my mom. I mean, eccentric is—”

Gwendolyn stopped her with a gesture of her regal hand. “My dear, she could be barking mad, indeed she may well be,
but on your wedding day everyone will find her amusing. And when she’s simply too much for you, just send her to
me
.”

Stella threw her arms around Lady G and hugged her tight.

Gwendolyn took Stella’s hand and led the wedding planning party out into the secluded garden at the back of the club. She directed Stella to a bench beneath a cherry tree and admired a cherub.

“That’s better. I do love a garden. Now, dear, Nigel tells me there was some unpleasantness last night after your little soiree, the bachelorette affair. Someone died, I believe?” Gwendolyn was terribly interested. Too interested. This was clearly a woman who loved a mystery.

“The death didn’t actually happen at the party, so don’t worry, Lady G, you didn’t miss anything grisly,” Stella said.

“His body was found this morning,” Miguel said. “In front of his building.”

“That’s all we know,” Stella said. “So far.”

Lady Gwendolyn seemed torn. She obviously didn’t want anything to overshadow the nuptials, but she was a voracious mystery reader, the bloodier, the better. Gwendolyn Griffin was of the opinion that America was a seething cauldron of gore. And now a dead body had landed practically on her daughter-in-law-to-be’s doorstep? It was simply too mysterious
,
not to mention too delicious, not to explore.

“Do we know how he died?” she asked.

Stella shook her head, but gave Gwendolyn the barest sketch of the “haunted Russian shawl” and the supposed curse. “Leonardo mocked the shawl, and now he’s dead.”

“My dear, I simply do not believe in invoking the paranormal in a mystery, unless it’s absolutely necessary. Is foul play indicated? Or was he hit by a bus?”

“It wasn’t a bus,” Lacey said. “The medical examiner is conducting an autopsy, but that takes a while. Particularly in the District of Columbia. But I have some inside information.”

“Aha! So we do know something.” Gwendolyn turned her powerful gaze on Lacey.

“According to my coworker at the paper—and this is all just hearsay—Leonardo might have been poisoned.”

“Poisoned!” Stella yelped. “Lacey! You didn’t tell me that. That doesn’t sound good.”

“I didn’t believe poison was an appropriate subject for discussion while we were talking about the appetizers.”

“But that’s just weird,” Miguel said. “Leonardo didn’t eat anything at the party.”

“He grabbed a drink,” Stella said. “Uninvited, I might add.”

“No one else died. Or even had a tummy ache. Leo was the only pain at the party,” Miguel added.

Gwendolyn lowered her voice. “Indeed. And what does that tell us? It tells us that this Leonardo person was
murdered
.”

“Or killed himself,” Miguel said. “It could happen. Or maybe it was an overdose of something that acted like poison.”

“It tells me he should never have crashed my party,” Stella said gloomily.

“Darling,” Miguel said, “I imagine Leo regrets it too. Wherever he is.”

“Poor man. And might there possibly be a funeral for him this week, do you suppose?” Lady Gwendolyn adored funerals. “A funeral and a wedding in the same week? What a coincidence! Circle of life, what?” It would certainly make her visit to the Nation’s Capital even more unforgettable. “I mean, there are respects to be paid, after all. Not that I knew the deceased, of course, but I’m sure he had many fine qualities.” Lacey, Stella, and Miguel were silent. “No? Really? Not a one?” She smiled her carnivorous smile. “Even better.”

On Gwendolyn’s first visit, Stella had endeared herself to her future mother-in-law by taking her to the funeral of a murder victim who had been dyed dark blue through and through. Lacey’s sense of decency was affronted by the blue-on-blue open-casket service, but it was the highlight of Gwendolyn’s American experience. Except of course for her son’s unlikely engagement to Stella Lake. Her store of cocktail conversation had been replenished for years to come.

“A funeral? To steal the spotlight from
my
wedding?” Stella fumed. “Even dead, Leo’s a scene-stealer!”

But Gwendolyn had already shifted from wedding plans to funeral plans. “I do have a nice black dress in my suitcase. It’s best to be prepared. I must buy a new journal to record this experience. And a new fountain pen. So many adjectives, so little time.”

“I’ll ask Kevin. That’s his roommate,” Miguel said.

“How lovely. Thank you, Miguel. And look who’s here. My bonny boy, the groom-to-be.”

Strolling through the doorway of the garden in his everyday uniform of khaki slacks and blue oxford-cloth shirt, Nigel Percival Griffin made his belated entrance. Stella leapt up at the sight of him. Standing tall in her heels, she ran her hands through his shaggy light brown locks. She frowned, not at the love of her life, but at his
hair
.

“Nigel, pumpkin, sweetie, cupcake, you need a trim before the wedding. And use that conditioner I got you! You want to look your best for our big day.”

He smiled sheepishly. All it took was a “Sorry, luv” for Stella to melt. “I’ve got all my future days to look my best for the woman I love. Mother, keeping the troops in good order, are we? You’re looking well.”

Nigel kissed Lady Gwendolyn’s cheek.

“As are you, Nigel. But you’re late.”

“What did I miss?”

“Everything,” she said. “As usual.”

“Splendid.” Nigel was in high spirits. “You didn’t need me to help decide about the napkins and salad forks, now, did you? I’m sure you ladies have everything well under control, in your capable little hands. It’s a great thing being the groom. I only have to show up
.
Not be late, not fall down, not forget my lines. Line, that is: ‘I do.’”

“You don’t think we’d leave anything really important up to you, do you, Nigel?” Gwendolyn asked. “Well, then.”

Miguel tapped Lacey on the shoulder, feeling left out. “Oh, I’m sorry,” Lacey said. “Nigel Griffin, this is Miguel Flores, our wedding stylist. Extraordinaire.”

“And dashing man-about-town,” Miguel added. “Lovely to meet you, Nigel. Stella’s told me everything.”

“That’s my Stella. How do you do.” Nigel remembered his manners and shook hands, one arm still slung around Stella’s shoulder. “Surely not everything?”

“I think he’ll do, Stella. He’s cute.” Miguel winked at Lacey. She gave him an eye roll in response.

“Smithsonian, looking smashing as always.” Nigel didn’t quite meet her gaze. She’d caught him spying on the bachelorettes.

“You never know where I’ll pop up,” Lacey said. “Maid of honor, keeping an eye on everything. By the way, where’s the best man?”

“Oh, um—”

“That’s right, the famous Bryan!” Stella said. “I haven’t even met him yet, so I guess we’ll all be surprised. I can’t wait, he’s like Nigel’s oldest pal. Mate, I mean. No wait,
I’m
Nigel’s mate. Or will be soon! But I’m sure I’ll totally love Bryan.”

Nigel looked like he wanted to climb over the garden wall. “Good old Bryan. Um, he had some, um, business,” he said.

“Speaking of business, I must be leaving.” Gwendolyn stood up and tugged at her beige sweater.
It can’t really be tweed,
Lacey thought, but it looked like tweed. “I have to go amuse your father. Dinner with old friends.”

“Wonderful,” Nigel said, vastly relieved. “See you later! Give my regards to the old man. Nice place for a reception, this garden, so quiet out here off the street. Good job, Mother.”

They moved through the cool calm of the Arts Club and back outside, where the sun beat brightly down on Eye Street. Nigel hailed a cab for Gwendolyn and bade her good-bye. But before she ducked into the backseat, she caught Lacey and Stella with her determined gaze.

“If any of you hear a word concerning the suspicious demise of our Mr. Leonardo, do please let me know. And if by chance there should be a funeral—”

“Don’t be so gruesome, Gwendolyn,” Nigel said. “We’ll have none of the Lady Sherlock or Dame Agatha routine this week. We’ve got a proper wedding to attend to.”

“My dear Nigel, I know you call me the Gorgon behind my back,” Lady Gwendolyn said, as coolly as if she were addressing Parliament. “However, if you want people to think that
your
wedding guests, even uninvited ones, can be allowed to simply drop dead during
any
of the formal nuptial events without the proper public display of sympathy from the family, that’s up to you. But I know my duty and I shall do it.”

“Let them drop dead if they like, I say. Dear me, I’ll never make a proper ambassador at this rate, will I, Mother?”

Stella stepped into the fray between mother and son. “If there’s a service, Lady G, I’ll let you know. Promise.”

Gwendolyn beamed at her soon-to-be daughter-in-law. “That’s my girl.”

She gave the driver of the Yellow Cab (actually yellow this time) the address, Nigel slammed the door, and the cab sped off. “Really, Stella, you must not humor the Gorgon. The old man will have a conniption if she runs off to some funeral.”

“Don’t look at me, doll.” Stella kissed Nigel’s cheek. “I don’t want a thing to do with Leonardo’s murder. But whatever Lady G wants, Lady G gets.”

“Murder? Nobody’s said it was murder!” Nigel looked around, worried. “Did they?”

“Could be suicide,” Miguel suggested. “Leonardo was not a happy person. Everyone knew that.”

“Suicide. Good. Better at any rate than murder most foul. Don’t want to get the Gorgon overly excited. Well, then, that’s settled,” Nigel said, though nothing was settled at all.

“You’re right. Everything’s settled. We’re getting married! Unless something else happens, God forbid. And as long as the shawl is safely tucked away.” Stella kissed him hard, right there on the sidewalk on Eye Street. Public display of affection was not a common sight in the District of Columbia. Passersby stared. “But you really should have been here.” Stella scolded him gently. “You missed
my
mother. I needed your support.”

“That is a shame,” Nigel said. “After all you’ve told me, I feel as though I know her already.”

Miguel whispered in Lacey’s ear. “Come on, Lacey, you can’t deny Nigel’s accent is
adorable
. And he somehow escaped the genetic disaster of his mother’s smile.” He raised his voice to take his leave. “Alas, boys and girls, I have a cake to oversee, and a cake baker to pinch. Nigel, a pleasure. Stella! The dress! We’ll talk! Lacey, I’ll call you later, and let me know if anything juicy happens.”

“What about Leonardo? Do you think there’ll be a funeral?” Stella asked.

“I don’t know about a
funeral
.” Miguel slipped on his shades. “You know Leo. He always said when he died he wanted an extravagantly wild cocktail party thrown in his honor. He told me once, ‘Cremate me and put me in an urn, next to the champagne bucket. I want to be the centerpiece.’ Alas, he was serious.” Lacey felt her eyebrows lifting. Both of them. “I was there! Leonardo probably said the same thing to everyone he ever slept with. That’s half the D.C. gay population.
Someone
will probably throw him a last cocktail party. Not me. However, I wouldn’t miss it if it happens.”

“That cannot happen!” Lacey said. “And if it does, Gwendolyn Griffin must not hear about it. Especially if she thinks he was murdered! She’d insist on going, and then she’d tell everyone in England that’s how we do funerals in the Colonies. Cremation and cocktails at five.”

“You started it! You took her to the funeral of a dead blue guy.” Miguel was finding this much more amusing than she was.

“Stella did that.”

“At least you provided the dead blue guy.”

“I did not, Miguel! Fate did that. Stella and Lady Gwendolyn took it from there.”

“So who gave us a dead Leonardo? Fate? Or the haunted shawl?”

That’s a good question
, Lacey thought.