Grave Apparel (19 page)

“That
sizes
it
up
pretty
neatly,”
Lacey
said,
sipping
her
champagne.

“The thing really lights up and plays ‘Jingle Bells’?”

“Like
Harlan’s
antlers.”
She wiggled her
fingers
above
her head. He laughed.

“What a pair
they
are. There really is someone for
everyone,
isn’t
there?” He put his arms around
her.

“There is for
me,”
she said.

Tony
and Linda Sue returned with drinks and the four of
them
grabbed
an
open
table.
Tony
and
his
date
took
chairs
across
from
each
other
and
gazed
into
each
other’s
eyes.
Lacey
tossed
Vic
a
knowing
glance. She
gave
Tony’s
new
relationship a month, maybe
two.
Tony’s
dating
history,
in so
far
as
Lacey
knew
it, consisted of his
own
personal Blonde of the Month Club, with an occasional
extension
for a second month. He had in
fact
told her once,
ruefully,
that his
average
relationship
was
about four and a half dates. The half date
was
the
inevitable
breakup date, where someone got dumped in the middle of din ner and decided not to hang around for dessert.

“Lacey
baby!”
LaToya
broke
through
the
crowd.
“You
didn’t
tell me about some creep in the
alley
putting the hurt on our poison pen
writer.”

“I
never
had a
chance,”
Lacey
said.
“And
Claudia said not to—”

“Well,
it’ll
be all
over
the party soon enough. Peter Johnson
just
raced
out
of
here
like
his
pants
were
on
fire,
hollering
something about
Wentworth
and Smithsonian. Just thought you should
know.”
Lacey looked
up.
Faces
in the
crowd
were peer ing at
her.
Fingers were pointing.

“Looks
like
Felicity’s
got
a
grudge
against
Cassandra,”
Tony
said to
LaToya.

“Lots
of
people
have
a
grudge
against
Cassandra.”
LaToya
was
enjoying
being in the thick of breaking
news,
like
any
re
porter.
And
every
reporter
knows
it’s
sometimes hard to
tell
news
from gossip.
“She’s
that kind. Pisses people
off.
Makes
you
want
to pop her
one.”

“Someone
did,”
Tony
said.

“About
time too. But what about you,
Lacey?”
LaToya
sat
down
on
the
edge
of
their
table,
smoothing
her
satin
skirt.
“What do you think? Of course, my prime suspect is Miss Pick les, who I am deeply disappointed to say is wearing nothing at all
like
an aluminum Christmas tree, or
even
those cheesy light up antlers
like
her
boyfriend,
the jinx. I
was
hoping
Felicity’d
at least be wearing a tree skirt and a ton of tinsel. Nada. Pretty suspicious
behavior,
for
her.
So of course she tops my list of suspects. Then there is
you.
”

“Me?”
Lacey
sat up straight. “Say what?”

LaToya
smiled
wickedly.
“You
had
words,
harsh
words,
with
our
Cassandra
before
she
left
tonight.
You
told
me
all
about it
yourself.”

“Is this true?”
Vic
was
now
also on alert.

“Wentworth
was
psycho
over
our
Miss
Smithsonian’s
valiant
defense of the Christmas
sweater.”
LaToya
had a tabloid style of talking and writing. “Cassandra
threw
the
newspaper
at our
Lacey,
inciting who
knows
what murderous
passions.”

“Oh,
please.”
Lacey
laughed.
“She
threw
my
waddedup
column at me,
Vic,
and I made a paper airplane out of it and
threw
it back. I found the whole thing mildly amusing. Cassan dra
didn’t
find
it nearly as amusing as I
did.”

“When did this happen?”
Vic
asked.
Everyone
was
leaning in so close,
Lacey
felt she needed
air.

“Right before I changed clothes. When I
asked
her what she
was
going to wear to the
party,
she
flew
out of there
like
a bat on a
bicycle,”
Lacey
said to
Vic’s
arched
eyebrow.
“She
was
wearing her
bike
clothes.”

“Everyone’s
waiting
for
you
to
confess,
Lacey,”
Tony
smirked.

“Confess
what?
That
I
was
more
interested
in
getting
gussied
up
for the party than letting Cassandra ruin
my
evening?
I confess. And then she called me up to abuse
me
some more. I
was
in the ladies’ room when her call came in on my cell phone. And then the second call came, telling me a lady
was
hurt in the
alley.
I
was
standing right
next
to you,
LaToya.
You
told me not to answer the phone! And then you
left.”

LaToya
made a rueful
face.
“Oh,
that’s
right, I did say that. Damn, girl, I’m your alibi! There goes another suspect. Guess you’re
off
the
witness
stand
for
now.
You’ll
be
chasing
this
phantom
attacker
then,
won’t
you? No Pulitzer in this
tawdry
little tale,
though.”

“Give
it a rest,
LaToya,”
Tony
said.
“Don’t
you
have
men to chase?”

She
gave
him
the
evil
eye.
“I
don’t
have
to
chase
’em,
Trujillo.
All
I
gotta
do
is
crook
my
little
finger.”
She
stood
up
and
straightened her dress with her hands, letting them linger on her
hips.
“Tootles
for
now,
people.
By
the
way,
you’re
a
finelooking
specimen, Miss
Lacey’s
boyfriend.”
LaToya
leaned into
Vic.
“If that girl
ain’t
ultranice to you tonight, who you gonna call? Just call on me,
wonderful,
beautiful me.
LaToya
Crawford.”

“Ah,
I’ll
keep
that
in
mind.”
Vic
cleared
his
throat
and
looked
to
Lacey
for help.

Suddenly,
the
lights
flashed
off
and
on
again
and
spotlights
swept the room,
finding
and then
following
Claudia Darnell to the stage. The
PA
system played Don
Henley’s
“Dirty Laun
dry,”
the rock anthem of journalists
everywhere,
drowning
out the sweet R & B from the dance band in the room
next
door.
This
was
the signal for the announcements and entertainment. She
waved
at the
crowd
and then gestured for the applause to stop.

“It has become a tradition here at
The
Eye
to
lovingly,
and not so
lovingly,
lampoon some of the
year’s
most memorable moments, both in the
news
and in our
newsroom.
We
are not the
stuffed
shirts
of
the
Fourth
Estate;
we
leave
that
up
to
The
Washington
Post
,”
Claudia said. The crowd roared.
“As
you
know,
the First Amendment of the Constitution is precious to us, and the free speech in these skits is Constitutionally pro tected.
They
are unrestrained, unpredictable, uncensored, prac tically unrehearsed, and maybe
even
not yet written,
but
keep
in mind, I did not write them, I
have
not seen them or
approved
them, nor am I responsible for
any
tasteless,
juvenile,
satirical atrocities that may
take
place on this stage tonight. I plead the Fifth Amendment. And
now
please join me in welcoming the Not Ready for K Street Players!”

The
crowd
applauded as props were placed for the
first
skit,
the
most
notable
a
gated
picket
fence
draped
with
several
loud
Christmas
sweaters.
Rumbling
through
the
room
the
word
“Sweatergate”
became
a
chant.
“Sweatergate!
Sweatergate!
Sweatergate!”
Lacey
assumed
that
the
Not
Ready
for
K
Street
Players had not been informed that Cassandra
Wentworth
was
in the hospital and possibly near death. That might be too taste less for
even
reporters to
make
fun of.Three male sportswriters sashayed onto the stage in drag. One
wore
a
yellow
bike
helmet and
bike
shorts and a ballet tutu and carried a giant Styrofoam pencil skewering a
Christmas
wreath; apparently he
was
Cassandra
Wentworth.
The
next
man
wore
a
big
gaudy
Christmas
sweater
and
a
muumuu
and
carried
an
overflowing
cookie
jar:
Felicity
Pickles.
On
his
head
he
wore
a miniature aluminum Christmas tree.
LaToya
must
have
been
channeling
this
image,
Lacey
thought.
Or
else
she’d
seen
a
runthrough.
The third
burly
sportswriter sported a big blond wig in a
pageboy
style, tottering high heels, and a
women’s
suit stretched tight
over
his
chunky
frame. He gleefully issued
over
sized
fashion
citations to
everyone
onstage and in the
first
row
of the audience, tossing them from a giant parking
ticket
pad, while
blowing
a shrill police whistle and hollering,
“Fashion
Police! Crime of
Fashion!
Fashion
Police!”
Lacey
rolled her
eyes
and pasted her biggest
phony
smile on her
face.
I
am
not
a
blonde,
she repeated to herself.
I
may
have
blond
highlights,
but
I
am
not
a
blonde,
and
this
will
all
be
over
soon.