Death on Heels (4 page)

“She’ll live, and I’ll have a blessed break from talk of tulle and ruffles, or whether it’s the leather bustier or the velvet corset for the wedding.”

“And Brooke?”

“Busy with work. Can’t get away. You know I love them, but…” She let out a deep breath and glanced at
her watch. “Anyway, I have a powwow with the Pink Collar Posse in an hour. I’m sure I’ll get my last-minute instructions.”

“This crazy mercy mission of yours couldn’t come at a worse time,” Brooke said, slinging her bulging briefcase into the booth at the restaurant. “My caseload is full. Stella is up to her bustier in strategizing all things wedding. What if you need us? What if I need you because Stella is driving me crazy?”

Stella gave Brooke The Look. Brooke Barton, Esquire, was Lacey’s sometime attorney, full-time friend, and longtime Washington conspiracy theorist.

“I’ll be fine,” Lacey said. “So will you. And Stella.”

Stella frowned. A look of pique crossed Brooke’s face. It was eight o’clock on Friday night and Brooke still wore a sleekly tailored pin-striped suit of indeterminate color, somewhere between taupe and gray. Her long blond hair was twisted back in a tortoiseshell clip, strands escaping picturesquely around her face. Lacey knew this was Brooke’s hey-it’s-the-end-of-the-day-and-I-don’t-know-what-to-do-with-my-hair look.

The third member of their group was Stella Lake, Lacey and Brooke’s loyal friend and fabulous-yet-opinionated hairstylist, who was at the moment planning her nuptials and more crazed than ever. Stella wore a tight purple sweater with deep-dipping décolletage, a short, tight, red miniskirt, and purple-and-white-striped tights. Her eyeliner and mascara and currently chestnut-colored cupid curls made her look like a naughty Raggedy Ann doll who had lost her way.

Lacey wore old jeans and a soft, deep turquoise sweater. On her feet were comfortable low-heeled boots, not cowboy boots, and her hair was free. She felt a little subdued next to Stella, but a lot more comfortable than Brooke.

Stella tapped her purple fingernails on the table, drawing their attention to her irritation, and to her engagement ring, which sported a large diamond solitaire.

“I’m with Brookie,” Stella said. “This trip is totally rotten timing, Lace. Like, I know you gotta go. But to be honest, it kinda feels like you’re abandoning me. Us.”

“Hey, I’m not abandoning anybody. Life doesn’t run on schedule. Don’t worry, Stella. I’ll be back in time for your wedding.”
And in time to wear whatever scary bridesmaid dress you finally decide on
.

Stella’s choices for dresses had been all over the map, from Renaissance Goth Princess to Judy Jetson high on rocket-fuel fumes. Lacey shuddered at every new idea, each a little further over the top than the last. At least there was no time now for custom-made dresses. They’d have to buy them off the rack. Lacey just hoped the rack wasn’t at the costume shop for
The Rocky Horror Picture Show.

The trio met for a quick dinner at the Southside 815 restaurant in Old Town Alexandria, instead of someplace in the District. It was two blocks from Lacey’s apartment, and she was still dithering over last-minute details. They ordered the Southern-style appetizers, crab and corn fritters, fried green tomatoes, barbecued shrimp, sweet potato biscuits, and corn bread. Stella was grooving in grits heaven. Brooke was delicately diving into the bread basket. But Lacey only picked at her food.

She had toyed with the idea of not telling her friends she was leaving town and dropping them an e-mail after the fact, but she couldn’t deal with the hurt feelings. After all, the three of them had been through a lot together.

Stella, who had been in physical therapy since her leg cast came off, was now proudly hobbling around. Devastated that she couldn’t wear high heels yet, at least not
two
of them, Stella was determined to wear her highest heels for her wedding to the semi-dapper Nigel, a scamp of an Englishman who had stolen her heart—and, Lacey hoped, nothing else. Lacey still didn’t trust Nigel completely, but he was growing on her. Nigel called himself a “professional stolen jewel retriever,” but he was in fact a semi-reformed jewel thief turned some kind of shadowy insurance investigator. Lacey thought he had a little
too much interest in shiny baubles.
Most likely why he’s attracted to Stella. She’s nothing if not a shiny bauble of a person. With a heart of gold.

“This is my hour of need,” Stella whined. Brooke and Lacey rolled their eyes in unison.

“We can’t all have our hour of need together at the same time,” Lacey said.

“I didn’t mean it like that. Exactly.” Stella fiddled with a chestnut brown curl. She was the manager and head stylist at Stylettos Salon in Washington’s Dupont Circle neighborhood, and she was fighting the urge to do something radical with her hair before her wedding. But for the sake of her friends, and the wedding pictures that future generations of her progeny would see, she was restraining the impulse. Lacey could see self-control was taking its toll. “I just meant that I’m swamped at the salon or I’d come with you.”

“No thanks, ladies. The Pink Posse can sit this one out.”

“Sure, you say that now, but when you’re up to your ass in alligators, or alligator pumps, you’ll be sorry,” Stella said.

“No alligators of any kind in Sagebrush,” Lacey assured her. “Just rattlesnakes and other assorted wild critters. Coyotes. Pronghorns. Jackalopes. You know.”

“What’s a jackalope?” Stella asked.

Brooke handed Lacey her own copy of the Cole Tucker story, with annotations. “And when you need a lawyer, who are you going to call, way out West?”

“Really, guys, you’re very sweet to worry about me, but I’ll be fine. Vic will be there.” Lacey tried to shift the subject. “Frankly, I’m surprised you two don’t have dates tonight.”

“Ha! Who says I don’t? I’m seeing Nigel later,” Stella said. “We have to discuss ushers, and he still hasn’t picked a best man. I suggested Vic.”

“My Vic? Vic Donovan? Really? You’re kidding, right?” Vic and Nigel had a history, from prep school on down to the present, and it wasn’t friendly, though their diplomatic relations were now thawing a bit.

“Funny, that’s what Nigel said. But he’s got to have a best man. And he hardly knows anyone here. Any other guys, I mean.”

“How about Kepelov?” Lacey was being facetious. Gregor Kepelov was supposedly an ex-KGB spy, and Nigel’s sometime partner in the soldier-of-fortune business. And sometime mortal enemy.

“Yeah,” Stella said dubiously. “He’s, like, semi-under-consideration too. Sort of.”

“And you, Brooke. Working late tonight?”

“Unfortunately. It’s going to be a long weekend too. But I might see Damon in the morning for coffee.”

Stella batted her eyelashes. “The romance of the century. Skyping at two a.m. to keep you warm.”

“That’s right, Stella, the twenty-first century.” Brooke was very fond of Damon, her boyish cyberspace muckraker. “Truth, justice, and the American way. And Skyping.”

Stella dismissed Brooke’s romance with a shrug. “And why haven’t we heard about this killer before, Lacey?”

Why indeed?
Lacey wondered. She was beginning to feel ganged up on. “He didn’t kill anyone. And he was just—a boyfriend. He just, um, never came up in conversation. Till now.” They looked unconvinced. “Come on, Stella, your past conquests could probably fill several New Jersey phone books. Not counting the unlisted ones. Have you told us about all of them?”

Stella harrumphed. “You dated this guy for, like,
how
long and he, like, proposed to you and now he’s been arrested for murder? We shoulda known! You have totally been holding out on us, Lace. Ask me anything. I’ll tell you whatever you wanna know, even up to and including Jared Goodman behind the bleachers when I was in seventh grade. He was in the eighth grade. Jared was, like, this total middle school rock star, see, and I was, like, his groupie, and we used to—”

“Too much information,” Brooke interjected.

“Too much is never enough, Brookie,” Stella shot back. “Now
your
private life is like the Book of Secrets, ya know?”

The pin-striped attorney blushed pale pink. “My only Book of Secrets is a law book. There’s hardly been time for anyone. Certainly not in middle school!”

“Till Damon Newhouse,” Lacey reminded her.

“Yes, there is Damon.” Brooke allowed herself a small angelic smile. “But no secret there. You both know all about him.”

“And he knows too much about all of our secrets,” Lacey interjected.

“As an investigative cyberjournalist, it’s his job to know.” Brooke smiled.

Damon ran the Conspiracy Clearinghouse Web site, also known as DeadFed dot com, a forum for fringe conspiracy theories of all kinds, including such ever-popular mysteries as who was
really
behind the global recession, toxic chemtrails, killer vaccines, CIA mind control, and the brain-eating zombies who secretly run Congress.

Some journalist
, Lacey thought.
Damon’s a berserk blogger with an Internet bazooka
. But she held her tongue and merely groaned delicately.

“Speaking of Damon, he’s not going to believe this one,” Stella cut in. “And you can get yourself into more trouble than anyone I know, Lace.”

“Check a mirror, Stella. Really, you guys. My trip won’t interest Damon. There is no global conspiracy angle. No aliens, no leaked documents, no strange creatures out of time and space,” Lacey said.

“You don’t know that until you get there, now do you?” Brooke said. “Speaking of strange creatures, what is a jackalope, anyway? And what if you happen to need legal advice?”

“Why would I need legal advice?”

Brooke and Stella shared a look and broke out laughing, as if on cue.

“’Cause you always get in trouble,” Stella said. “Duh.”

“I do not.” Lacey seemed to remember that Stella had been in trouble quite a lot recently, and surely it must be Brooke’s turn.

“Yes, you do. And we’d be right there with you,”
Brooke said. “If only this stupid case I’m on hadn’t been continued, I’d be free to explore this legendary Sagebrush of yours.”

“It’s too gritty for our favorite Gucci girl, Brooke,” Lacey said. “There’s no Burberry for two hundred miles. Well, at least fifty.”

“I’m sure I’d bear up sans Burberry.”

Stella gazed at Tucker’s picture in the news story. “He looks hot. I love cowboys. So was he good, I mean as in really
good
? You know, like, tall in the saddle?”

“Oh, Stella. He was a good guy, if that’s what you mean.” Lacey knew it wasn’t at all what Stella meant. “The cops got the wrong guy this time.”

“And you’re going to find out who really killed those women?” Brooke asked, now at full attention. Stella’s eyes lit up with interest. “That’s what this is all about, isn’t it, finding the real killer?”

“I’m going to Sagebrush to assure myself he’s not a killer,” Lacey said. “I’ll let the law do its job. If Tucker’s innocent, he’s got nothing to worry about. Right?”

“‘If’? You mean you’re not sure?” Brooke leaned forward.

“Of course I’m sure,” Lacey said.

“That’s what Bluebeard’s wife said,” Stella added. “Just before she opened the forbidden door. And found the rest of Bluebeard’s wives. Dead, I might add. Totally dead. And blue.”

“They were not blue!” Lacey sputtered. “You’re a comfort, you know that, Stella?”

“I try.” Stella stabbed a piece of corn bread with her purple nails. “Gee, I wish I could come with you, Lace.”

“If you’re so busy at Stylettos, how come you were able to meet us here? I thought you might have to work tonight,” Lacey asked.

“I had to cut back my hours. I can’t stand a full shift on my leg until it’s, like, totally back in shape. Good thing I’ve decided to wear a long wedding gown.”

“And you can always wear low heels if nobody’s going to see them,” Brooke pointed out.

“Bite your tongue, Brooke Barton!” Stella was so aghast that Lacey laughed. “I am not wearing some nightmare orthopedic clodhoppers.”

“Low heels do not mean orthopedic clodhoppers.”

“Tell that to the jury, Miss High-Power Pumps,” Stella shot back.

“You could always get some fancy lace-up, high-heel boots, maybe in white leather,” Lacey suggested.

Stella nodded. “You’re talking about high heels, pointy toes, cute laces? That might be cool. Maybe some crystals, or pearls. Or at least rhinestones.”

Of course they would have rhinestones
, Lacey thought. “And they’d support your ankle.”

“But nothing orthopedic.”

Lacey was pleased the conversation was safely back in the land of sugarplums and wedding gowns. Considering how sick she was getting of the whole wedding planning rigmarole, it was surprising how comforting it could be.

Suddenly the memory bubbled up of Cole Tucker’s long-ago wedding proposal and what it might have been like to get married in Sagebrush, Colorado. In January. At forty below. A sudden chill went right through her, and she waved at their waitress for hot coffee. Stella and Brooke were still deep in Wedding Dress Land.

At least I won’t have to explain what a jackalope is.

Lacey Smithsonian’s