Grave Apparel (14 page)

“Not
one
word
here
tonight
about
Sweatergate,”
Mac
warned.
“I
don’t
ever
want
to
hear
that
word
again.”

“I’m sure Cassandra is in good
hands.”
Claudia inserted her self back into the conversation and put her hand on
Lacey’s
arm. “But
there’s
nothing we can do right
now.
And as
awful
as this is,
she’s
lucky
you were there to call for
help.”

Lacey
was
about to correct the misimpression that it
was
she and not the little shepherd
boy
who had really
saved
Cassandra,
but
Claudia turned back to the
receiving
line with a
final
in struction.
“Let’s
not cast a pall on this party for
everyone
else, shall we?”

Lacey
was
effectively
dismissed. She
broke
from the
receiv
ing line to
retrieve
Vic,
who’d
been
watching
on the sidelines.

“Everything
okay?” He put his arm around her
waist.
“I’m not supposed to ruin the party with my bad
news.”

“Sounds
like
good
advice,”
Vic
said.
“You
did
what
you
could,
sweetheart.
You
did
good.
You
might
have
saved
her
life.”
Lacey
nodded and rested her head on his shoulder for a
minute.
“It’s
out
of
your
hands
now,
anyway,
isn’t
it?”
She
pulled
away
and
gazed
at
him.
Concern
lit
his
jade
green
eyes.
“Yes,
and
it’s
not a murder case, so you
can’t
blame it on me and my
alleged
magnetformurder
thing. Can you?”
Vic
just smiled. She grabbed his hand and led him in the direction of the
open
bar.
“Come
with
me,
you
handsome
thing.
Who
can
I
show
you
off
to?”

The party rooms were
beginning
to
fill
up,
but
she immedi ately
saw
one of her least
favorite
people, Peter Johnson, who
pointedly
turned
away.
Johnson
was a
Capitol
Hill
reporter
whose
exalted
political
beat
covering
Congress
barely
con
tained
his
inflated
sense
of
selfimportance.
He
somehow
thought being a Hill mole made him
sexy,
to
Lacey’s
mind a psychotic delusion.
They
had
butted
heads before.

A
glance
told
her
that
Peter
Johnson
was
being
true
to
his
dweeby
Washingtonian
fashion
sense
and
dyedinthewool
conformist
nonconformism.
To
this
formal
blacktie
event
he
had
worn
a
brown
corduroy
jacket,
rumpled
and
stained
khaki
slacks,
a
blue
denim
work
shirt,
and
a
violently
purpleandred
andblue
Jerry
Garcia
tie.
Not
wearing
a
tux
really
sticks
it
to
the
Man,
dude!
And
my
tie
totally
rocks
the
power
structure.
He
had
begun
wearing
his
thinning
hair
in
a
ponytail.
Lacey
thought it
was
a sure sign of
an impending midlife crisis.

Johnson skipped the
receiving
line and strode to the bar right past
Lacey
and
Vic,
as if he were
expecting
someone.
Lacey
as sumed it
was
Cassandra
Wentworth.
She had seen the
two
of them
exchange
furtive
longing glances,
even
though
they
both
seemed
to
have
grudges
against
the
world
and
no
idea
what
to
do with
any
feeling
warmer
than contempt.

Johnson had
always
shunned the holiday party as a
trivial
frivolity,
but
this year
Lacey
guessed he
was
a man with a mis sion: Consume enough free liquor to actually talk to Cassandra.
He
apparently
hoped
against
all
reason
she
would
deign
to
be
there. He shot
Lacey
a dirty look. She briefly considered telling Johnson about Cassandra,
but
what
was
the use? Besides, Clau dia had said to
keep
it quiet.

“Who is that jerk?”
Vic
asked.
“I
don’t
like
the
way
he looks at
you.”

“That’s
sweet of you,
darling.”
Lacey
smiled. “That jerk is Peter Johnson, our Hill
reporter.
He’s
under the
mistaken
im pression that I’m
forever
trying to steal his beat. As
if.”

“Shall I set him straight?”

She laughed at the thought of Johnson landing flat on his pride in the middle of the
floor.
“Tempting,
but
people might stare. And
worse,
write.”

“Hey,
Lacey,
Vic!”
A
loud
voice
hollered
from
behind
them.
She twirled around to see Harlan
Wiedemeyer,
The
Eye
’s
“death and dismemberment”
reporter,
looking
like
a jolly little elf in a
tuxedo
that strained across his chest and a bright red
cummerbund
around his substantial
belly.
He
was
carrying a huge candy cane. And on his head, not a Santa cap,
but
a pair of
brown
felt reindeer antlers. He pressed the tip of one antler and the ears lit up in a
happy
blinking antler dance to the tune of “Santa Claus Is Coming to
Town.”
This
was
just the type of sartorial statement of seasonal cheer that Cassandra
Wentworth
had been trying to stamp out.
If
Cassandra
weren’t
already
in
the
hospital,
Lacey
mused,
Wiedemeyer’s
musical
antlers
would
send
her
there.
She felt a stab of guilt.
But
she
didn’t
de
serve
what
happened
to
her.
And
where
did
Wiedemeyer
get
that
big
candy
cane?

“Nice antlers,
Wiedemeyer,”
Vic
said.
Lacey
thought he
was
just being polite,
but
Vic
had a big smile on his
face.
He
was
getting a
charge
out of this chubby little elf in a tux and antlers.
“I’d
like
to see the reindeer those came
from.”

“Amazing
what you can pick up at the drugstore,
isn’t
it? These babies will
positively
pickle that pompous
Wentworth
witch.”
Wiedemeyer
stroked
his antlers
fondly.
“She
wouldn’t
dare
show
her
face
here,
would
she? Nah,
she’s
probably out making some other poor bastards miserable
tonight.”
Every body
was
a “poor bastard” of one kind or another in
Harlan’s
world.
He
waved
the candy cane, as delighted as a little
boy
waving
a
brandnew
baseball bat.
“And
have
you seen the size of these babies?
They’re
all
over
the
place.”

“She’s
not
coming,”
Lacey
said,
but
Wiedemeyer
wasn’t
lis tening. Santa caps and giant candy canes were
everywhere.
The little shepherd
boy
was
telling the truth.
This
is
a
nightmare,
Lacey
thought.

“I’ll
just
have
to wear my antlers to
work
then.”
He snatched
hors
d’oeuvres
from
a
nearby
tray.
“I
can’t
imagine
what’s
keeping
Felicity.
She’s
been telling me
how
great this shindig
always
is. I
even
got all dressed up for
her.”
He hit the
button
on his antlers
and
they
started twinkling again.

“I’m sure she’ll appreciate
it,”
Vic
said, nudging
Lacey’s
arm. “I got all dressed up too,
but
I
forgot
my antlers.
Lacey
says
she’s
going to
show
me later
how
much a
woman
appreci ates a man in a
tux.”

“Victor
Donovan!”
Lacey
grabbed his arm meaningfully and
gave
him
The
Look.

“You
think so?”
Wiedemeyer’s
antlers seemed to perk up.
“You
think
she’ll
show
me too? I mean
Felicity,
you
know,
not, um—”

“How
could Felicity resist a man of your
impressive
antler age, Harlan?”
Vic
said. “But maybe you should
save
your bat teries for
her,
don’t
you think?”

“Well,
gosh,
yes,”
Harlan blushed.
“Absolutely!
Oh,
boy!”
Wiedemeyer
was in such a dither he didn’t
even
have
some
bizarre tale
plucked
from the
day’s
news
for them.
Wiedemeyer
loved
the D & D beat and
was
always
willing to share, and the more bizarre and/or disgusting his tale, the
better.
Reporters
who
saw
him coming
down
the hall with a
juicy
tidbit often de
veloped
an
urgent
need to go
interview
a source,
any
source,
anywhere
but
in the
newsroom.
But tonight there
was
no talk of
exploding
toads, or
fish
with human teeth, or male bass in the Potomac laying
eggs,
or some idiot bank robber handing
over
a threatening note with his personalized deposit slip.