Grave Apparel (32 page)

A
dozen
or
so
people
stood
gazing
at
the
lighted
Nativity
tableau, the plaster
figures,
and the hay bales scattered around the ground and inside the
wooden
structure. Some were parents with their children. Perhaps
Pastor
Wilbur
Dean
liked
the sym bolism of placing the crèche in a
vacant
lot. It might highlight the plight of the Holy
Family,
who could
find
no room at the inn. Or maybe there simply
wasn’t
enough room around the church. The stable once hosted a
living
Nativity
with actors,
but
they
had long since been replaced by statues.
They
were three quarters human size, stripped bare of their raiment. Apparently the good pastor
hadn’t
anticipated the unintended consequences of
offering
free clothes to
thieves
and the homeless.

Lacey
tried to see what the little shepherd might
have
seen. Mary
was
beaming
serenely.
Next
to
her,
Joseph bent protec

tively
over
the
Infant
in the
manger.
An angel stood on the roof. The three kings
waited
with their gifts, and there were
two
lit tle shepherd
boys.
But
Lacey didn’t
see what the child
saw,
the missing robes. Perhaps all her little shepherd
saw
was
warm
clothing, or a cool
new
coat.

The
boy wouldn’t
have
traveled far
and most
likely
he
lived
close
by,
Lacey
reasoned. On the other hand,
they
were about
two
miles from
The
Eye
’s
building
down
at Connecticut and Eye Street. Perhaps it
was
a small crime of
opportunity.
Maybe it
was
just too tempting to steal a
funnylooking,
oldfashioned
robe and then go
wander
the streets in disguise, before
wander
ing back home. Or maybe the shepherd
was
homeless, or not quite homeless,
but
on the edge of it, cold, desperate, and dar ing? Sleeping in an
alley
somewhere
in a dirty
shepherd’s
robe,
unaware
he might be in dange
r..
.

Too
dramatic,
Lacey,
she told herself.
Knock
it
off,
you’re
just
torturing
yourself.
The kid was probably having a
good
laugh about his big
adventure.
Playing with his PlayStation in front of a cozy
fireplace.

Vic
stepped into the semicircle of
viewers
next
to his mother
Nadine
Donovan,
who
was
standing
next
to
another
well
tended matron, a blonde in a bob and a camelcolored suede
jacket.
“Mother.”
His
voice
betrayed some
exasperation.
“What are you doing
driving
that
car in
this
neighborhood?”

“I had to
take
the Pink Flamingo, Sean
Victor.
She has the only trunk that can handle our Christmas shopping.
You
know
that.”
Nadine was unfazed by his tone. “No one would
ever
steal
her,
she’s
too noticeable to steal. It
would
be
like
stealing the
USS
Enterprise.
Besides, your
father
had that cunning little LoJack system installed for
me.”
She took his arm. “Just look at this!
Isn’t
this such a sweet little church, and this
Nativity
scene? Oh
my.
So urban, so
gritty,
so
touching.”

“It’s
not
exactly
Bethlehem.”
Vic
kissed her on the cheek and pulled
away
from her embrace.

“No,”
Nadine agreed. “It
would
be much
warmer.
But
even
Bethlehem
isn’t
what it used to be, is it? And I’m so delighted to see the
two
of you here!
We
thought you might drop
by.
Let’s
get some hot cocoa after this, shall we?”

Lacey
recognized the blonde as
Brooke’s
mother,
Trish
Bar ton.
Lacey
hadn’t
realized
they
were friends. It
didn’t
take
a ge

nius
to
figure
out
why
they
were
here.
Shopping,
indeed.
“Hi
Trish,”
Lacey
said.
“It’s
Damon’s
lunatic
Web
site,
isn’t
it?”

Trish
Barton
laughed.
“I
like
how
you
get
to
the
point,
Lacey.
Yes,
DeadFed
just
mentioned
that
the
Nativity
scene
here
was
plundered, including a
shepherd’s
robe
very
much
like
the one described in your
newspaper.
Two
plus
two.”

Nadine
picked
up the
narrative.
“And
Damon is looking for a little man or a
dwarf
he
believes
wore
the robe and witnessed or perpetrated the attack at
The
Eye
the other night.
How’s
your investigation going, Lacey? I see
you’re
following the
same
trail of clues we are!”

Lacey
could
feel
steam
gathering
in
her
head.
“Of
course,
you read this on
DeadFed.”

“Something
like
a leprechaun, I
imagine,”
Trish
said. “But I
think
he
also
mentioned
a
hybrid
race
of
gnomes?
Something
ghastly that happened in a petri dish in some secret
government
lab
somewhere?
Which just goes to
show
you
shouldn’t
mess around with
DNA.
You
probably
know
more about all that than we do,
Lacey.
We
just decided to
take
a look, get in on the ac tion.
You
and
Brooke
get to
have
so much
fun.”

“It
was
a child! The witness
was
a child!”

“Whatever
you
say,
dear,”
Nadine
said.
She
winked
broadly.
Clearly
she
and
her
fellow
matron
in
crime
believed
Lacey
knew
more than she was telling. “DeadFed says you can
be
cagey
like
that.”

Vic
took
Lacey’s
arm and pulled her out of earshot. “Sweet heart, let Damon do what he does
best.”

“Which is what? Confuse and obfuscate and
trivialize
the issue?
He’s
not a journalist,
he’s
a—”

“Yep,
he is that, and you gotta admit
he’s
really good at
it.”
Vic
kissed her forehead. “Maybe
he’s
helping in his
own
way,
just by sending other people
off
on wild goose chases, while you try and
figure
out
what’s
up with that
kid.”

“Oh
you’re
good.
You
know
that,
Donovan?
So we let them assume some phantom
dwarf
or little person is on the
prowl,
no
doubt
kneecapping
people
so
the
aliens
can
abduct
them,
right?”

“It’s
getting
nippy
out here,
isn’t
it?” Nadine
drew
her coat around her tightly to
ward
off
a sudden breeze.
“At
any
rate, we all
know
that Lacey Smithsonian will crack the case.
That’s

what DeadFed says. After all, you found the poor
woman,
right
dear?”

“DeadFed says a lot of
things,”
Lacey
protested.

“And
I
suppose
that’s
not
why
you’re
here?”
Trish
Barton
said.
“You’re
not interested in writing a
followup?
I
have
it on
very
good authority that you
never
give
up on a
story.”

“Good authority?
You
mean
Brooke.”
Lacey
smiled in spite of herself. It
was
good to
have
friends,
even
if
they
were a little too enthusiastic.
Even
if
they
were
certifiably
insane.

“And
by
the
way,
Lacey,
thank
you
for
your
column
on
Christmas sweaters. I
never
for a minute thought you wrote that
awful
Sweatergate
thing.”

“You’re
welcome,
Trish.”
At least the
Washington
fashion
world
was
safe for
women
like
Trish
Barton, who could
now
wear their Christmas
finery
without fear of further
abuse
from
The
Eye
Street
Observer
.
Of
course,
there
was
always
The
Washington
Post
around
to castigate
people.

Now
Lacey
would
also throttle Damon for telling the
world
about
Sweatergate.
She
silently
added
it
to
her
long
list
of
mo
tives
for his demise. In the meantime, maybe she could
have
a little fun at his
expense.
Anything
she said here
would
surely reach Damon.

“Actually,
Eye
Street
reporter Peter Johnson is the lead on this
story,”
Lacey
said. “He thinks it has real potential.
He’s
our ace Hill
reporter,
and he thinks this story may penetrate”—she paused dramatically and dropped her
voice—“the
highest
lev
els
of
our
government.”
Nadine
and
Trish
Barton
gasped
at
the
audacity of those cunning little conspirators bonking reporters in
alleys.
“But
don’t
tell Damon,
whatever
you do.
With
his sources,
he’d
be
way
ahead of Johnson in no
time.”
They
both murmured their assent and
exchanged
significant
glances.
Take
that,
Newhouse.